Desolate
by AlphaHook
Summary: Derek stops short the moment his eyes fall on the huddled mass in the corner. The beta lying crumpled there is trying desperately to make himself seem as small as possible It takes Derek almost a full minute to realize who it is and another to realize that he's wearing tattered, blood-stained remains of the clothes he disappeared in. rape/non-con! underage! M/M You have been warned
1. Author's Note

This story is based off another story I found on ArchiveOfOurOwn by vague_shadows. Credit to the author fully. Hope you enjoy! ~AlphaHook


	2. Chapter 1

The alphas are _finally_ gone, killed or driven out by the combined efforts of werewolves and hunters. Derek was about to crash into his first decent night's sleep in _months_ when Deaton called and absolutely insisted Derek come to the office. _Right fucking now_. Because some matter of near life-and-death importance has come up.

Needless to say, Derek's not in a great mood when he storms into the clinic.

"Okay, Deaton. I'm here. What the hell is so important that you call me at three in the morning the one fucking night I could finally—"

Derek stops short the moment his eyes fall on the huddled mass in the corner. The beta lying crumpled there is trying desperately to make himself seem as small as possible and cover his most vulnerable areas. It takes Derek almost a full minute to realize who it is and another to realize that he's wearing tattered, blood-stained remains of the clothes he disappeared in over four months ago. The acrid stench clinging to him tells such a vivid story of the atrocities he must have endured while he's been missing that Derek thinks he might be sick.

"Stiles?" he asks in disbelief.

There's no response, but Deaton nods a confirmation.

"The last alphas must have left him behind when they fled. I found him when I got back here after tending to your pack. "

"What the hell happened to him?"

"You know as well as I do that they were keeping some betas in the pack as lackeys and pawns. It seems Stiles fell somewhere in that category."

"Will he be okay?"

"It's hard to say. Physically he seems to be more or less fine, but mentally…" Deaton lets the sentence trail off as he studies Stiles worriedly. "I fear they've been toying with his memory all this time. He doesn't seem to know who he is or who we are."

"Is that something we can fix?"

"Perhaps."

"How?"

"You're an alpha. If you work at your control, you _may_ be able to give memories of his old life. If you give him enough, it could spark a reversal of the amnesia."

"How does that work if the memories have been taken?"

"They're not literally taken, just blocked. It's part of the alpha's power over memories and perceptions of reality. Taking and giving memories is simply a milder version of what Peter did to Lydia."

"You expect me to fix this?"

"I expect you to try. I know it seems impossible, but you can't just leave him like this. At the very least he needs a pack so he doesn't fall to omega. The Hale Pack is the only pack for miles. You need to take him in."

"Hale Pack?" Stiles says quietly, turning his face just slightly toward them.

"Yes," Deaton replies. "Does that mean something to you, Stiles?"

"Are you Alpha Hale?" he asks Derek, voice trembling.

"Yes," Derek replies, recoiling inwardly at hearing the formal title from the familiar voice.

"I have a message for you, Alpha."

"What message?"

"I'm not sure," he replies apologetically, eyes still avoiding Derek's, "but I don't think it's healed yet."

"I don't understand what that means."

Stiles moves slowly, as if he expects to be attacked at every motion. He brings his shirt up over his head and turns his back toward Derek and Deaton. Etched in the pale skin are slowly healing wounds from an alpha's claw, forming the sick message they've instructed Stiles to blindly deliver.

 _To the Hale Pack with best regards. Enjoy him as much as we did._

Below the words is the Alpha Pack's symbol that serves as a signature leaving no doubt which monsters were behind the broken boy who sits before Derek. He barely makes it out the back door before he's violently ill, bracing himself against the rough brick. He hears Deaton walk out behind him but doesn't turn.

"How the fuck am I supposed to fix this?" Derek asks dejectedly. "I wouldn't even know where to start."

"You owe it to him to try. You're his best bet."

"Then God help him," Derek mutters wearily. He takes a deep breath, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and prepares to go back inside.


	3. Chapter 2

By the time Derek goes back in, Stiles has donned his shirt once more. He's still against the far wall. Instead of his previous cower, he's now on his knees, hunched in submission, facing Derek. Everything about the position is so _not_ Stiles that he can't process it. This whole situation is so fucked. He wasn't exaggerating when he said he didn't even know where to start. Stiles breaks the silence for him.

"Please, Alpha," Stiles says quietly. "I didn't think the message would be offensive. I didn't know. I never would have—"

"Stop," Derek interrupts, and Stiles' words cease immediately as his head dips even lower. "You don't have to apologize. It wasn't your fault."

"Thank you, Alpha."

"What do you remember?"

"I don't—I don't understand, Alpha."

"Before the Alpha Pack," Derek clarifies. "How much do you remember?"

"Before the Alpha Pack? There was nothing before the Alpha Pack. I can't—I'm sorry, Alpha, I—"

"It's okay," Derek assures him, needing this broken apologizing to stop before he's sick again. "I'm just trying to understand what happened."

"I don't know, Alpha," Stiles admits woefully. "They said they were leaving. They said I was better suited for another pack, so they brought me here and told me to find Alpha Hale to deliver the message. I don't understand what I did, but I promise I'm a fast learner, Alpha. If you teach me what to do, I can be a good part of your pack. I swear to you I can do whatever it takes—whatever you need. I can be a good beta. I can, Alpha, if you'll let—"

"Stop," Derek says again, fighting at the bile rising in the back of his throat.

He stares sadly at the pitiful, panicked teenager who's holding back tears as he pleads for a place in the Hale Pack. He's not relieved to be set free of the alphas; he just feels _abandoned._

 _Well then, I guess I do know where to start._

 _"_ You want to be part of the Hale Pack?" Derek asks.

"Yes, Alpha!" Stiles replies eagerly; he turns his head to the side, exposing his throat. "I can be a good beta. I can serve the Hale Pack. _Please_."

"I know you can be a good beta," Derek tells him wearily. "You're more than welcome in the pack, Stiles. We want you to be with us."

"Thank you, Alpha. Thank you. I'll earn my place; I promise. Whatever you—"

"First things first," Derek interjects, quelling the sickening gush of gratitude. "Tonight we'll get you cleaned up, and then get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."

"Yes, Alpha."

* * *

It's a long morning of monologues in the back office of the vet clinic as Derek tries to summarize Stiles' life to him—what he knows of it anyway. It's clear that, while Stiles understands the concepts of what Derek tells him, he has absolutely no memory of his life before the alphas took him. He knows what a father is; he just doesn't think he has one. He doesn't understand why he would have hesitated to join Derek's pack or chosen a makeshift human pack instead. He can't figure out the motivations behind any of his actions from before; he just continues to assure Derek he can be better now.

The feeling of guilt churning in Derek's gut only intensifies as the conversation goes on. How many times has he wished Stiles would stop arguing and just listen to him? How many times did he seethe in anger that Stiles wouldn't help convince Scott to join the pack? How many times did he think the scrawny human should learn some respect? Now it seems he's been granted those wishes, and the truth is that the person sitting before him isn't Stiles anymore because of it.

"I know it's a lot to absorb," Derek tells him, "and the others have been told about your memory loss. They'll help you while I try to figure out how to reverse the amnesia. We won't stop trying until you're better, okay?"

"Yes, Alpha," Stiles answers immediately, "but I don't want to trouble you. I'm sure there are more important things you need to—"

"No, Stiles," Derek counters. "This is the number one priority now that the Alpha Pack is gone. We were looking for you for months. It's what got the pack together in the first place. We're not going to let them do this to you. You're going to get your memories back."

"Yes, Alpha," Stiles agrees meekly.

"I told you that you don't have to call me that," Derek reminds him.

"But you're an Alpha," Stiles replies, "I don't understand what else I would—"

"Just call me Derek."

"Yes, Alph—Derek. Yes, Derek, of course."

"Scott is going to come and get you to take you home. He can explain more to you—tell some stories that may help with your memories. Your dad knows the situation. He knows you've been turned. You don't have to worry about telling him that, just focus on not shifting; don't hurt him."

"I won't, Derek."

"I have some things to take care of, but I'll be by later to see how you're doing and talk through how we'll handle things until your memories come back."

"Yes, Derek."

He runs a hand down his tired face. Maybe the title Stiles gives him is different, but the tone is the same. He doesn't know how to explain what Stiles is doing wrong. _Technically_ Stiles isn't doing anything wrong. He's doing what any beta is supposed to do, showing respect, but Stiles has respect out of fear that's been ingrained in him as he endured hell for four months. That's not the respect Derek ever wants as an Alpha.

* * *

He begins to answer to the name Stiles, as the Alpha told him to. He goes with the beta called Scott, as the Alpha told him to. He dons the hat and sunglasses the beta provides and rides quietly in the backseat hidden under a blanket so he won't be seen, as the Alpha told him to. He goes into the house with Scott, as the Alpha told him to. He greets the man the Alpha says is his father but who doesn't smell like pack, and he doesn't shift or hurt him, as the Alpha told him to.

They're careful with him, and he isn't sure why. They seem to be waiting for something, some sign from him, but he isn't sure what. He takes the water the human gives him and sits on the sofa with Scott, still trying to figure out _why_ the Alpha would want him to come here instead of going to the pack if he's really going to be allowed to stay.

As Scott speaks, telling stories Stiles can't remember of time they supposedly shared before the alphas took him, he begins to understand. He wasted time on pranks. He broke rules. He put others in danger. He supported a beta's decision to deny his alpha—more than once—and fought against the Alpha's wishes. He created trouble for the Alpha by telling lies to the police. He inhibited the Alpha's ability to deal with the threat of the kanima; he allowed himself to be captured by hunters; he can't even count all the moments of disrespect and insubordination. The list of infractions grows longer and longer as Scott continues to talk. He wants to beg the other beta to stop; there's too much to be forgiven. Instead he bites his tongue and carefully catalogs the transgressions to ensure none are ever repeated.

"Maybe that's enough for now," Scott says eventually. "You don't look so good, dude."

"There's more?" he asks dismally.

"Well, yeah. There's, like, your whole life." When he doesn't reply Scott adds, "But, hey, hopefully Derek figures this memory thing out and you'll remember for yourself."

"I don't need the memories to understand the point."

"Well, yeah, but if you get the memories back you can get back to being your old self again."

"I will _never_ go back to being that way!" he insists, rising to his feet. "I'm a _good_ beta. I know how to behave in a pack now. I'm not wasting months of training to—"

" _Training_?! Stiles, that wasn't training! That was fucking torture; you have to know that."

"I know that I'm glad they got me first because otherwise there's no way in hell the Alpha would have let me in his pack if I really did all the things you say. You should be grateful the Alpha ever took you."

"What the fuck, man? That is some seriously messed up logic you've got going on. You—"

"There is nothing wrong with my logic."

"Stiles—come on, this isn't you. Did you hear _anything_ I said? You're not supposed to roll over and take it. You're—you're supposed to be _you._ Everyone liked you the way you were—the way _we_ were—all witty and hyper and fun and _you_. There was nothing wrong with it."

"If you believe that, then maybe you should be the one reexamining your memories. Your loyalty lies with an alpha, and it always should. Derek is your alpha now; he's taken you in and kept you from becoming Omega. Be grateful; don't forget your place," he warns. "Your job is to serve your alpha and your pack, not to satisfy some rebellious teenage—"

"Scott, I think maybe he's had enough for today," the human suggests.

"Maybe you're right," Scott agrees. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay? Derek too. He'll explain the whole pack thing better."

He rises to leave, and Stiles follows.

"No, you're staying here," he tells Stiles.

"What?"

"Derek said it's best for you to be at home. Familiar stuff from before, ya know? To trigger some memories maybe?"

"Stay here?"

"Yeah," Scott confirms. His previous frustration seems to be melting away as he adds, "It'll be okay, Stiles. I swear. Everything's going to be okay."

When Scott balls his first and moves to hit him, Stiles blocks the pathetic attempt at a blow and steps back, teeth bared and a growl in his throat, though he doesn't shift completely.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—" Scott says quickly. "I—we used to do the whole bro-shoulder-punch thing, and I—I was trying to make you feel better, but clearly I fail at life."

Stiles doesn't reply because he didn't even understand half of that sentence.

"I'll see you later, dude."

Stiles watches him go while keeping an eye on the human—Dad he's supposed to call him—out of the corner of his eye. Derek instructed him not to hurt the human, but he can still be ready for a defense if needed.

The mantra repeated so many times replays in his mind: _Never trust anything outside the pack. Never interact with anything outside the pack. Nothing matters but the pack. You understand? Your place is here. Serving the pack in whatever way is required of you._

It's taking all his control to keep his panic in check now that Scott is gone. There's nothing here to suggest pack, only this human who smells vaguely familiar—probably because they share DNA—but not anything truly pack. He moves slowly to sit on the sofa, breathing deeply as he tries to control his heart rate.

 _The Alpha will come. He won't leave you here. This is just to allow you to think of what you've done and should never fall back to. This is a lesson—a reminder from the Alpha of what it would be like to be without pack—be grateful that he takes time to teach you. You told him you could learn so learn from your time as you wait._

 _The Alpha will come. He won't leave you here. You're pack. You aren't alone. Derek will come._

* * *

It takes longer than Derek expected to air out the apartment. They've been jumping between hideouts so often he hasn't been back here for more than a few hours at a time for nearly a year. Now there's not much to hide from—not even the Argents since Chris and Allison are the only ones left. It's a relief, but it still feels weird to make his bed and unpack his clothes. It's strange to bring in groceries and store them neatly in the fridge, mentally planning the meals for the week instead of figuring out how to fit in meals on the run.

Down the hall he can hear Peter settling into the second bedroom. He'd wondered if Peter would leave once things were settled with the alphas, but it seems his uncle has every intention to stay. He's oddly content to serve as Second and coast along as Derek takes the lead; he claims he enjoys sitting back and watching the shit storm unfold as Derek deals with his pack of teenagers. Derek can't help wondering if Peter's really just waiting for the moment when the pack is stable and Derek's not looking; Peter claims he doesn't want to be an alpha again because it's too much for him to control, but Derek knows this kind of power is hard to resist. Peter may make a damn good Second, but Derek still knows better than to trust him completely, which is why he's kind of glad Peter decided to move in; hopefully Derek can keep an eye on him.

It's nearly nine o'clock by the time Derek heads for the Stilinski house. Scott called earlier to say Stiles wasn't doing so well. Apparently Stiles seems to think he shouldn't be the same Stiles he was before the alphas; he doesn't think they want him to be his old self again. Derek has no idea how to convey how wrong that way of thinking is. He'll try once he gets there. Maybe time with his father helped calm Stiles a bit.

* * *

Hours pass and still no one comes for him. He sits, meditating dutifully on all the stories Scott shared and all the things he can do to show Derek that the previous, unworthy Stiles is gone. He can prove to them all that he can be an asset to the pack. He knows his place; he knows how to be useful. He won't ever revert to that smartass little wretch he was before. He knows better now, and he'll make sure Derek knows that.

 _If_ Derek ever comes.

 _He will come. He will. He's not leaving you here._

 _Not that you could do anything about it if he did. He's your alpha; he can keep you here as long as he wants. He doesn't have to come back. Could you blame him if he changed his mind about you?_

 _No, he'll come. He said he would come. He told me to talk to Scott, see this Dad, and then Derek said he would come._

 _Please, come, please, please, please, please come._

No matter how hard he tries to fight it, the terror still seeps in. He can feel himself begin to tremble, and, when he realizes he can't calm himself enough to stop, the panic _really_ take hold. He can't shift. Derek told him not to shift and not to hurt the human. He can't disobey; he won't. He takes the letter opener from the coffee table in front of him and drives it deep in his thigh. The searing pain blessedly clears his head and brings him back from the edge of the shift.

But he can feel it building back again almost immediately.

 _Oh God, please come. Please come soon. Please. Please. Come soon._

* * *

Derek can smell the blood once he steps out of his car; panic clenches in his chest as he sprints up the front steps and bursts in the door. Stiles is in his beta form, covered in blood, and flings himself immediately at Derek's feet.

"I'm trying to control it, Alpha, please," he sobs desperately. "Help me; I can't. The pain isn't working. I don't know what else to do. I'm sorry, Alpha. I'm so sorry. I tried, Alpha, I swear I—"

He shifts into beta form and growls, sending Stiles scurrying back. It has the desired effect, and now the panicked beta is back to human at least. He approaches slowly as Stiles continues to sob out apologies.

"It's okay," Derek soothes. "I'm not going to hurt you, Stiles. It's okay. What happened?"

"I couldn't control the panic-it just—it was too much being here so long—I couldn't—without something pack—I just panicked. My pulse jumped and I could feel the shift coming and I tried to control it but the pain didn't work and that just made it all worse and I tried—God, Alpha, I swear I tried—but I couldn't keep it from happening."

Derek sees now the slashes all over Stiles body where he tried to conjure enough pain to control the shift. There's so much blood in the carpet he doesn't want to think how long Stiles must have been trying to inflict enough pain to shift back before Derek returned.

 _Unless some of the blood isn't his._

The sheriff's cruiser and truck are still both parked outside.

"Stiles, where is your dad?"

Stiles points toward the bathroom door. The sofa, recliner, and coffee table have all been shoved in front of it. He can hear the sheriff's muffled voice from behind the door now.

"You told me not to hurt him," Stiles says by way of explanation. "When I felt it coming, I forced him in there."

"Good," Derek says with a relieved sigh. "That's good, Stiles. You did the right thing."

Stiles seems to relax just the tiniest bit at the praise.

"I tried to keep the shift from happening," Stiles says again, beseeching Derek for mercy he clearly doesn't _actually_ expect. "I was weak, Derek. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I can do better. I can learn. I learned today from the stories from Scott. Derek, I understand. I won't ever be so disrespectful again. I won't ever hesitate to support the pack or your decisions or—"

"Stop," Derek orders.

Stiles silences himself with a whimper.

"That's not what I meant—I was just trying to help you. Sending you here was supposed to _help_ you."

 _I'm supposed to help you, not put you in a situation where you start mauling yourself in a tizzy of panic. Jesus fucking Christ._

"It did," Stiles insists. "It helped. I learned. I know. I understand. I shouldn't act like that or I'll be separate from the pack," Stiles elaborates, clearly convinced he's affirming some sick lesson Derek had planned in sending Stiles here. "I'm better now, Derek. I swear to you. I'm not like that anymore. I won't ever be like that again."

 _That's exactly what we're afraid of, Stiles._

Derek turns, trying to compose himself and figure out what the fuck he can say to make this situation remotely better. The turn sets Stiles off though, and he's back at Derek's feet in an instant.

"No, Alpha, please. Please don't leave me here! I'll learn to control the shift better just don't—"

"Stiles, don't," Derek says wearily, crouching to Stiles' level because he's honestly not sure that the beta can stand.

There's at least one thing he can say right now to ease some of Stiles' distress.

"Look at me," Derek requests.

Stiles lifts his head but doesn't make eye contact. Derek moves to put a hand on Stiles' shoulder, and he can see the effort it takes Stiles not to recoil.

"Look at me," Derek repeats, and Stiles' eyes slowly find his.

"I am not going to leave you," he promises solemnly. "You are part of this pack now. You will never be abandoned again. No matter what."

"Thank you, Derek," Stiles replies with a weak smile, eyes dropping again. "I promise I—"

"I know," Derek says, cutting off whatever assurance Stiles wants to offer because he can't take much more of this tonight. "I know you're going to be good in the pack. I'm not worried about that; you don't have to be either. It's going to be okay."

 _I swear I'm going to figure out how the fuck to make it okay._


	4. Chapter 3

Derek wakes as the sun shines in through the blinds, now regretting his decision to only deal with the necessities for Stiles last night. At the time it had been all he could do to hold it together long enough to clean Stiles up, calm him down, and shove enough of his clothes in a bag that he could crash with Derek a few days. Dealing with the sheriff while Stiles waited in the car was equally exhausting. By the time they made it back to the apartment, Derek was too drained to function, so he gave Stiles a blanket and pillow on the couch, assured him again that he was not going to be punished, and promised to explain more in the morning.

 _Well, it's morning. What now?_

He wanders out into the living room to find Stiles sitting in almost the exact same position Derek left him in last night.

"Stiles, did you sleep?" he asks.

"Yes, Derek," Stiles reports.

"Good," Derek replies, unsure what else to say.

He goes to the kitchen and is halfway through a bowl of cereal when he catches Stiles watching out the corner of his eye. Stiles averts his eyes quickly, clearly hoping he wasn't noticed.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Derek asks.

"No, Derek," Stiles assures him.

"You hungry?"

"Yes, Derek."

"Cereal?" Derek asks, reaching for the box.

"Anything, Derek."

He studies Stiles then, noting the eagerness in his eyes.

"When was the last time you ate, Stiles?"

"At the vet's office before you came to claim me."

The way he speaks as if he were lost luggage Derek picked up from the airport is insanely unsettling, but there's a more immediate problem.

"You haven't eaten since then?"

"No, Derek."

 _Because I didn't give you anything. Fuck. I didn't even think about that._

 _"_ Shit, Stiles, I should've made sure you got something," Derek mutters, hurrying to pour him a bowl of cereal. "I didn't mean to make you wait that long. You should've told me."

"I'm sorry, Derek," he says quietly, head down again.

"No, don't apologize; it's not your fault."

 _It's mine. How the hell do I overlook that the malnourished, abused teenager I'm in charge of didn't fucking eat anything. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

"Here, come eat this," Derek instructs, and Stiles hurries to obey.

"Thank you, Derek."

"Stiles, you don't have to wait for me to give you food, okay? You can eat anything you want in this kitchen. It's all fair game. You can cook yourself something for breakfast if you want more than cereal. Can you cook?"

"Yes, Derek, I can cook anything," he replies confidently. "Anything you want."

It's the first sign on confidence in twenty-four hours. Though, the only reason Stiles would still know how to cook is because he did it serving the alphas. He's volunteering the information now with the assumption that it's a skill Derek will find useful. Derek's not sure if that counts as actual progress or not, but it's better than nothing.

"So you like to cook?"

Stiles seems almost confused by the question, but his voice is steady and sure when he replies carefully, "I like to do anything that you want me to, Derek. You're my Alpha."

It's a loaded statement, and it scares Derek to know how sincere Stiles probably is when he says _anything._ It puts a suffocating kind of terror in Derek's chest because he's realizing more with every moment that he doesn't know how the hell he's going to deal with this submissive version of Stiles while he tries to learn how to give back the memories.

Stiles finishes his cereal, drinking the milk to the last drop, and then immediately moves to clean his mess. He hesitates before reaching for Derek's bowl.

"May I take it, Derek?"

"I'll get it. You don't have to clean up for me."

Stiles nods acknowledgment, confusion on his face again, and moves to wash his bowl in the sink. He stills slightly when Derek moves to stand beside him at the sink. Derek doesn't understand the hopeful look on Stiles face until his face falls the minute Derek starts to pour out his leftover milk.

"Stiles, are you still hungry?"

"You gave me plenty, Derek."

"That's not what I asked you. I said, 'are you still hungry'?"

"Yes, Derek," Stiles answers apologetically.

"I said the whole kitchen, Stiles. Anything you want to eat."

"I don't need more, Derek. I'm fine. Thank you, Derek."

Derek grips to counter too tightly because watching this shell they left of Stiles makes him feel so pissed and guilty and helpless he could kill something—but bursts of anger damn sure aren't going to help the situation, so all he can do is sit and stew and hope to God he and Deaton can figure out how to get Stiles' memories back.

 _I should have protected him from this in the first place. I should've found him sooner. I should have ripped those alphas limb from fucking limb until we figured out where they were keeping him._

He knows that they did everything they could to find Stiles. Half the time they were just trying to figure out what the hell the alphas' next move was just so they could stay alive—barely. It doesn't make him feel any better though, not really, not when Stiles is still standing next to him completely broken. In the next instant, Stiles _isn't_ standing though. He drops to his knees with his head down and whole body tensed.

"Derek, I'm sorry I—"

"Stiles, don't— _why_ are you apologizing?"

"You're angry. I—"

"It's not you," Derek assures him tiredly. "I'm not mad at you. Please get back up."

Derek reaches to help Stiles to his feet, but he flinches away from the motion. Derek retreats a few steps to give him space as he rises.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Derek promises. "I'm mad at the Alpha Pack, okay? That's all. I'm mad at them for the way they treated you, and I'm pissed at myself for not getting you away from them sooner. It's not you at all. You're not doing anything wrong."

Stiles still looks confused as hell. It's clear he doesn't understand what Derek's talking about. He looks _lost_ , and Derek's going to lose his fucking mind if he doesn't figure out how to get that look to go away. _Soon._

"Okay, let's get you something else to eat, and then I've got to go see Deaton," Derek says, trying to ignore the way Stiles flinches when Derek moves past him toward the pantry. "Come here," he requests, and Stiles moves to stand next to him. "Pick out anything you want, okay? Anything at all—hell, you can have everything in here if you want it, but let's not get ambitious."

Stiles seems to be trying to find the trap in the words. Derek forces himself to wait patiently until Stiles reaches a cautious hand out to grab the peanut butter. He looks to Derek apprehensively.

"Perfect," Derek says forcing a smile. "Protein's good for you. It'll fill you up. Take it, and go sit on the couch. I'll be there in a second."

"Yes, Derek."

Derek grabs a pack of crackers, a spoon, a glass, and the half gallon of milk still sitting on the counter. Stiles looks up questioningly as Derek enters the den.

"Here's the deal," Derek says. "You can have or cook anything in the kitchen, like I said, but if you're not sure or that makes you uncomfortable or whatever, you can stick to the peanut butter. You can eat it straight out of the jar—the whole damn thing if you want and it doesn't make you sick. Here's crackers. Here's milk to wash it down. You can have it all, okay? Eat as much as you want."

"Thank you, Derek," Stiles says, eyes wide. "I—I—thank you."

The unwarranted amount of gratitude confirms yet again just how little care has been given to Stiles in his time with the alphas. It only intensifies Derek's need to get the fuck out of here and _do_ something to fix this.

"You're more than welcome," Derek replies, "and I mean it about the kitchen. If you get tired of the peanut butter, you can have anything in there."

"Thank you, Derek."

"I'll be back later, okay?"

"Yes, Derek."

"If you need anything, wake Peter. He won't be mad."

 _Well he's not a morning person, but he won't be legitimately mad. You won't have the gumption to wake him anyway. It'll be fine._

Derek hates himself for banking on Stiles timidity but excuses it because he's leaving him so that he can figure out how to make this all better.

"You'll be okay 'til I get back?"

"Yes, Derek."

He leaves hoping fervently that Deaton's got good news. The man's family's been doing this whole Adviser thing for years, so he should have _some_ idea where to start. Maybe this won't be so bad. Maybe they'll be lucky.

 _Please just this once let us be lucky._

* * *

Stiles sits contentedly filling himself with peanut butter and crackers for a good fifteen minutes after Derek leaves. He doesn't know the last time he was this full, and he takes time to sit and relish it. There's a voice in the back of his mind insisting this is some sort of trick or test, but he's replayed Derek's instructions a thousand times to check. This is what Derek told him to do. Maybe this illusion of serenity will shatter later, but, for now at least, it's good.

* * *

"We have a vacuum," the Second informs him when he walks into the den to find Stiles carefully collecting the cracker crumbs he got all over the couch.

"It would've woken you, Peter."

"Probably a good call in self-preservation to avoid that," he concedes.

"Yes, Peter," Stiles says, noting the advice for future reference.

"I'm guessing Derek's gone to Deaton to try and learn how to get you back to your usual snarky, pain-in-the-ass self?"

"Derek went to Deaton's," Stiles confirms, "but I'm not going to be like that again."

"No?" Peter asks raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"No," Stiles replies firmly.

"My need for coffee is outweighing the intrigue of this conversation; walk with me," Peter instructs.

"Yes, Peter."

Stiles rises and follows Peter to the kitchen, glad for a task. As Peter opens a cabinet to get out a mug, Stiles begins to clean out the coffee pot from its use the morning before.

"Are you going to make me coffee?"

"Yes, Peter," Stiles replies. "If that's okay? You said you needed coffee. I can make coffee."

"By all means," Peter replies, stepping back from the counter. "Good to know you've got a promising career as a barista if this whole amnesiac teenage werewolf thing stops working for you."

Stiles doesn't entirely understand what that means, so he just turns his attention to the coffee as Peter takes an apple from the counter and washes it in the sink. The Second sits at the bar, watching Stiles work. Stiles is careful to measure the grounds and water perfectly under the scrutiny.

"Asking permission to make _me_ coffee," Peter mutters. "There really isn't any of the old you left in there, is there, Stiles?"

"No."

"And you don't want it back?"

"No."

"Huh. Interesting," Peter says. "And what does Derek think about that?"

"I'm a better beta now; I hope he's glad."

"It doesn't matter to you that you don't have the memories?"

"Nothing matters but the pack," Stiles recites automatically. "My place is here, serving the pack in whatever way is required of me."

"Did they teach you that?"

Stiles nods. "I know my place. I'm a good beta."

"I can see that," Peter says nodding to the now brewing coffee pot.

Stiles smiles at the praise. "Thank you, Peter."

"So did Derek happen to mention what the hell I'm supposed to do with you while he's off learning new tricks?" Peter asks.

* * *

From the look of it, Derek's been pouring through books at Deaton's for while by the time Isaac walks in for his usual shift at the clinic.

"You look like hell, dude," Isaac comments. "Is Stiles really that bad?"

"He didn't eat for a day because I didn't offer anything, and he was too scared to ask," Derek quips back. "Yeah, he's bad."

"Holy shit," Isaac mutters, "Scott said we were fucked, but I thought maybe he was just freaking because it's his best friend, ya know? I didn't think—"

"There's nothing of Stiles left in that husk sitting in my apartment," Derek says grimly. "That's why I have to figure out how to get his memories back."

"And since you seem to be on the verge of mauling every book in sight, I'm guessing it's not going well?"

"No."

"I can see if Deaton can spare me," Isaac offers. "Help you look?"

Derek runs a hand down his face. "I don't even know what the fuck I'm looking for. Deaton says he's never come across anything about the theory of controlling memories."

"Then how do alphas learn it?"

"If I knew that, we wouldn't have this problem."

"Okay, no theory on control, but you know the general premise, right?"

"Yes."

"So how about trial and error?"

Yeah, great idea. I'll take the terrified trauma survivor who already cowers at the sight of me and start slashing the back of his neck with my claws. What could possibly go wrong with that plan?"

Isaac hesitates just a moment before offering, "So try it on me first."

"What?"

"Practice it on me."

"You're serious?"

"It's worth a shot, right? It's the only way we're getting Stiles back, and, from the sound of it, the sooner the better."

* * *

"I gave Jackson memories without even trying while I was still a fucking beta," Derek grumbles to Deaton. "Why the hell isn't anything happening now"

It's been nearly an hour, and Derek _still_ can't even get the memories to start taking. Isaac's been patient enough, but he knows the beta must be rethinking the decision to volunteer himself as the guinea pig. Isaac doesn't complain though. He just keeps telling Derek to try again.

"You gave Jackson hallucinations," Deaton corrects, "and most of that was due to the aconite poisoning acting as a catalyst."

"So if I use wolfsbane, I could—"

"It would do nothing for your control. It would just make the memories or hallucinations more sporadic."

"It would at least make _something_ happen. That's better than nothing."

"Don't fucking poison yourself," Isaac says irritably. "I told you. You look like shit. You're not up for it."

"I'll be fine," Derek insists.

"Shut up and try again," Isaac retorts. "You're wasting time."

"You're neck's not healed from the last two times."

"They're just scratches. They'll be fine."

 _They're deep damn scratches, Isaac. I know they hurt._

"Isaac—"

"Oh, my God, Derek, you've done worse. We need to fix Stiles. It's _fine_. Just do it!"

"Fine!"

He lashes out, claw going deep before he pulls away. Isaac's face contorts in pain before he pitches forward, clutching his head with a cry of pain.

"Isaac!"

Derek catches him before he falls and helps him to the floor.

"Isaac, what happened, what—"

"It worked," Isaac replies, smiling through the mask of pain. "It hurts like a bitch, but it worked."

"What?"

"It was a memory from when you were a kid. I don't think it's what you meant to give me, but it was definitely something. Give me a minute, and we'll go again."

"You shouldn't strain yourselves," Deaton advises.

Derek doesn't give a damn about straining himself. This isn't half as stressful as trying to figure out how to take care of brainwashed Stiles. Isaac's not looking so great though, and there's black blood oozing out of the wound now.

"What the hell?" Derek asks, looking to Deaton.

Isaac lifts a hand to gingerly touch the back of his neck.

"Why is it doing that?" he asks Deaton, examining the black gunk on his fingers when he pulls them away.

"The memory isn't natural; your body's confused about what's going on and trying to stop it. It's a typical werewolf immune defense."

"It's a memory, not a poison," Derek argues.

"A memory transferred through the bloodstream," Deaton reminds him. "If the blood isn't clear enough to pass the memory, the mind can't be intruded upon again until it clears."

"How long will that take?" Isaac wants to know.

"I'm not sure, but, as I said, you two shouldn't strain yourselves."

 _Two steps forward, one step back. Fuck my life._

 _"_ We'll give it an hour or two?" Derek suggests. "That should give them all time to fully heal."

"Okay."

"I should check on Stiles anyway—make sure he actually eats something for lunch."

"Can I come?" Isaac asks; there's a morbid curiosity behind the request.

"Sure," Derek replies.

 _You have no idea what's waiting for you when you walk into that apartment. Once you see him you won't get the look in his eyes out of your head, but at least you'll understand why I'd put you through this memory shit to get him back._

* * *

"Dude, is that smell coming from your place?" Isaac asks, his mouth watering as the aroma hits him.

"I told him to cook anything he wanted to; maybe he did?" Derek says hopefully.

The smell intensifies as they walk into the apartment. The kitchen counters are covered with an insanely impressive array of food. There's a full meal of laid out: roast, potatoes, carrots, green beans, sautéed mushrooms, rolls, and a salad. There's a pie, a plate of cookies, and Stiles is pulling a cake out of the oven now.

"Holy shit," Isaac breathes. "Talk about going all out."

"Oh good," Peter says from where he's sitting on the couch with a plateful of the culinary offerings. "I was afraid I was going to have to enjoy this all by myself."

"Stiles, you cooked all this?"

"Yes, Derek."

The food had distracted Isaac from noticing Stiles, but the words draw his attention now. He doesn't even _look_ like Stiles, not really. He's standing too still, and his head's down with his eyes on the floor. Everything about his demeanor conveys the docility that's come from his time with the alphas. Derek's right; Isaac can tell already that Scott wasn't over-reacting. This isn't Stiles.

"You told him to cook anything in the kitchen, didn't you?" Peter replies. "So he cooked."

"I can see that," Derek replies tersely.

Derek's scowling, and Isaac doesn't entirely get why. Apparently neither does Stiles because the look on his face shifts to pure terror in no time and he drops to his knees in front of the stove.

"Derek, I must've misunderstood. I'm sorry, Derek, I—"

"I'm not pissed at you, Stiles," Derek says, clearly trying to keep the anger out of his words but failing miserably. "Please stand up."

"Yes, Derek," Stiles replies, scrambling to obey.

"You told him to cook; he cooked," Peter says as Derek storms over to stand in from of him. "What's the problem?"

"These are _your_ favorite things, Peter."

"Is it my fault the kid has good taste?"

"Peter—"

"To be fair here, those cookies are entirely for you. You know I hate walnuts."

"What the hell is wrong with you? You spent the morning making him cook for you?"

"He needed something to do; it was a win-win."

Derek's anger couldn't be more clearly directed at Peter, but Stiles still looks petrified. Isaac can tell from across the room that he's shaking.

"Stiles, it's okay," Isaac assures him as Peter and Derek's conversation in the living room escalates to a shouting match about whether or not Peter's taking advantage. Isaac moves cautiously toward Stiles, but Stiles' attention is too focused on Derek and Peter's argument to notice Isaac's approach.

"The Second told me to cook it," Stiles says in a hushed whisper. "I thought I was supposed to."

"Derek's not mad."

"Yes, he is."

"Not at you. He's pissed at Peter for making you cook."

"I don't—I don't understand. Derek said I could cook anything in the kitchen. Peter said he was hungry, so I made what he told me to." He looks to Isaac in confusion. "What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing," Isaac insists. "It's really okay."

"It _can't_ be okay. Don't you _hear_ them?" Stiles moans, covering his ears with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut.

The words come out so hopeless and broken that Isaac's pulling Stiles into a hug before he really even thinks about it. _What the fuck did the alphas do to you, Stiles?_

"I swear it's fine. It'll be okay. They'll chill out in a minute."

He realizes that Stiles has stilled completely under his touch, and is about to release him when Stiles relaxes just the slightest bit, hiding his face in Isaac's shoulder.

"Then what happens?" Stiles asks mournfully, voice muffled into Isaac's shirt.

"They're not going to hurt you," Isaac promises, knowing Stiles doesn't believe him. "I swear they're not, Stiles."

He realizes then that Peter and Derek have stopped and are staring into the kitchen. Derek looks guilty as hell; Peter looks as close to remorseful as he ever gets.

"He's right, Stiles," Derek says earnestly. "No one's going to hurt you."

"Thank you, Derek."

Derek takes a step to come closer, and Stiles jolts back from Isaac to cower against the counters. Isaac turns to face Derek, keeping himself in front of Stiles.

"Give him a sec, dude. You scared the shit out of him," Isaac says exasperatedly.

"Stiles, I wasn't trying to scare you."

"Bang up job, there," Peter comments with a roll of his eyes.

"Not helping," Derek quips back.

" _Neither_ of you are helping," Isaac points out.

"Don't," Stiles pleads quietly behind him.

"They're not going to hurt me either," Isaac promises, turning back to face Stiles. "Look, I know how scared you are." _Okay I don't have any idea, I just have an inkling, but that's too long a story to tell right now._ "I was the same way before Derek turned me. I was scared _all_ the time, and it's terrible. I know it is, but it's not like that in Derek's pack. It's better. You don't have to be scared anymore."

Stiles doesn't believe him; of course, this Stiles has never lived any kind of life when fear wasn't constant so Isaac can't blame him for letting an existence of experience outweigh the words of a stranger.

"He's right," Derek agrees. "It's different here, Stiles, and I'm sorry I haven't explained it better before now. I just—"

 _Suck at non-aggressive communication?_ Isaac wants to finish for him.

"I just—I dunno—let's eat, okay?" Derek asks, clearly just grasping for something to do to break the unease that's radiating through the room. "You cooked all of this, and it looks amazing and you haven't had any. We'll eat, and we'll talk, and you can see it's different with us. Okay?"

"Yes, Alpha," Stiles agrees automatically.

 _And then we're going to keep working on the memory transfer because there is you can't keep living like this; getting your memories back is the only hope of getting you back, and, looking at you now, I'm not even sure that's going to be enough._

 _Scott was right; we're so fucked._

* * *

Hope you all like this new story!

 _ **Stay a sourwolf ~AlphaHook**_


	5. Chapter 4

"I don't understand why it isn't working anymore," Derek complains.

"Maybe it's like having an anchor," Isaac says. "You were pissed that last time we tried. Maybe the anger gives you the control."

"That'll be great. I'll just get really angry at him before I swipe at his neck."

"It's just a theory; I don't hear you coming up with anything better."

"Fuck, I don't know. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I'm just—"

Losing my mind trying to fix this but it's something I can't physically fight and I usually don't fare too well in those battles.

"In over your head?" Isaac asks with a knowing look.

Derek nods, sighing heavily and planting his face in his hands.

"We'll figure it out," Isaac insists.

"We better. You saw him at lunch."

You saw the confusion on his face the whole damn time. He doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about when I tell him there's not going to be any punishments for anything or when I tell him to whatever he wants not whatever he's told.

"I like to do whatever the pack requires me to do," Isaac quotes in Stiles timid monotone. He looks as sick as Derek feels at the memory. "It's creepy as hell, dude, and it's worse 'cause it's coming from Stiles of all people."

Derek agrees completely. It's creepy and sickening and just so many levels of wrong that he can't handle it. Watching what they've done to Stiles has him itching to shift and take out the anger on anything in reach. Lunch had been no better than breakfast—maybe even worse?—and no matter how many times Derek promises his frustration isn't because of Stiles, he knows the beta doesn't understand enough to believe him. He can't retreat to Deaton's forever, but he doesn't know what else to do.

"Come on," Isaac pushes. "Anger. Try it. Whatever you think about for the full moon."

"Fine," Derek agrees. "Worth a shot."

My family burned alive because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager. Peter lost his mind because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager. Laura is dead because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager. My family burned alive because I was an idiot, lovesick teenager.

He knows the instant he connects with Isaac that it worked. Isaac's sitting in a chair so he doesn't fall this time, but he still doubles over and grimaces in pain.

"Shit," he mutters. "Fuck—I mean good, 'cause it works—but damn that hurts."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"What did you see?"

Please not Kate. Please not Kate. Please not Kate.

"You went to college?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. You never mentioned that."

Derek shrugs. You never asked, either.

"Did you graduate?"

"No."

Driving back to California to find and bury my sister's dichotomized body sort of put a damper on senior year.

"Oh," Isaac says awkwardly before directing the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Well, so yeah, at least we know now the anger focus thing works, right?"

"Right."

"So, now we wait until I can go again? I don't think it'll take a full hour this time. That one didn't hurt as much. Maybe it gets easier with time?"

"Good," Derek says. "Here, I can take some of the pain."

"It's okay you don't have to."

"The better you feel, the faster you'll heal," Derek insists, placing a hand gently on the back of Isaac's neck. "It's gonna be a long day."

* * *

Stiles has been sitting idle on the couch for hours since Derek and Isaac left, trying desperately not to lose his mind with worry. He wishes Peter would give him something else to do, but after the way Derek reacted earlier, he knows better than to expect it will happen. The baseball game Peter's watching on the television isn't hard to follow; it doesn't occupy his mind as much as a task would.

f you're not being useful, you're being a burden. The mantra plays unbidden in Stiles' head. If you're not being useful, you're being a burden. If you're not being useful, you're being a burden.

He knows what happens to betas who burden the pack. Burdens are cut loose. Burdens are killed if they're lucky and cast out to be Omegas if they're not.

Burdens are left behind at vet clinics with notes carved in their backs.

And if you're not being useful, you're being a burden.

He doesn't know how to be less of one. No one has given him anything to do. Peter gave him a purpose for a few wonderfully clear hours, but Derek didn't like it. Derek was so mad, and, even after Derek tried to explain how things work in this pack, Stiles still can't figure out exactly why Derek was so angry. He always seems to be angry, and Stiles knows he could make it better if Derek would just tell him why and let him try to fix it.

I want you to do what you want to do, Derek had said. Not what Peter wants, or what I want, or what anyone else wants. Do things because you want to. It's okay to want things.

Stiles just wants to be useful, he just can't quite figure out how to do that here, not without more clues from Derek about what he wants from a good beta.

"Stiles?" Peter says, and Stiles surfaces from his sea of confusion and anxiety for just a moment.

"Yes, Peter?"

"Do you want to get us sodas from the fridge?"

In doing something as simple as adding 'do you want' to the beginning of the sentence, Peter's kept to Derek's instructions but also given Stiles the directions he needs.

"Yes, Peter."

He can't help grinning as he hurries to fill the request.

 _Maybe Peter can be the link. He understands what Derek says, but he understands how to help me, too. Maybe he can help me be useful._

* * *

A few hours later, Stiles is in the kitchen fetching pie— he's grateful for the second request and that Peter could tell when it was so badly needed—when the sound of the key in the lock jolts him from the temporary calm of having a task. When the door opens, he turns just in time to see a flurry of red hair before something very human and very not pack wraps its arms around him.

"Stiles, it's so good to see you we thought—"

He shoves her back with a growl and shifts, lashing out. His claws sink into flesh, but the cry of pain isn't human. In the next instant, all consciousness is lost as he lets his instincts take over in the fight to protect himself and, more importantly, the pack's territory. Eventually he takes a blow that sends him toppling backwards, hitting his head hard on the corner of the counter as he goes. In the moment of charity, Peter's voce pierces through.

"Stiles, stop it right now. Stop it."

Peter's pinning him to the floor with a clawed hand on his chest. He doesn't dare strike the Second, though his instincts scream to attack again.

"She's not pack, Peter," he grits out angrily, trying to maintain some grasp on his control as the pain starts to fade.

"I know she's not, but it's okay. She's not a threat."

"Never trust anything outside the pack," Stiles insists. "Never interact with anything outside the pack. Nothing matters but the pack."

"Those are their rules, Stiles, not ours," Peter says firmly, digging his claws in just a hint deeper to emphasize the point, "Understand?"

"Yes, Peter."

"Can you stand?"

"Yes, Peter."

"Good."

He lets go, and Stiles rises slowly to his feet. He doesn't advance again on the beta that's tensed in front of him, shielding the human. The beta is pack, though Stiles hasn't met him yet, and Stiles can't understand why the traitor would defend her against a packmate or why he would've led her to pack territory in the first place.

"Shift back, Stiles. No more fighting, I mean it. You're not allowed to hurt her."

Ever obedient, he glances around for something sharp enough. He takes the fork from the counter next to him and drives it into his leg to get the surge of pain it takes to shift back.

"Stiles, no!" the girl shrieks. "Oh my God, one of you stop him!"

"What the fuck?" the other beta demands, shifting back into his human form. "You just stabbed yourself in the leg!"

"What an astute observation, Jackson," Peter replies, rolling his eyes.

"He just calmly stabbed himself in the leg with a goddamned fork!" the beta repeats, voice verging on hysteria.

"Yes, he did," Peter agrees. "I'm guessing he needed the pain to shift back?"

"Yes, Peter."

"Now, who wants to explain what part of 'Stiles has amnesia' was unclear?" Peter continues, "and why the hell you two lovebirds decided on a surprise visit that thoroughly fucked over what was a tolerable afternoon up to this point?"

"Would you just take the fucking fork out and let it heal?" the beta demands, ignoring the Second's question because his eyes are still transfixed on the handle of the fork that's protruding from Stiles' thigh.

"Peter, please, I'm not sure I can keep the control if I take it out," Stiles counters.

"Take it out, Stiles. I'll stop you if you shift," Peter promises. "Trust me," he adds with an encouraging smile.

Stiles hesitates before nodding. He withdraws the implement slowly, trying to make sure his pulse remains as even and as calm as possible.

"Very good, Stiles."

"Thank you, Peter."

"Stiles, what the hell did they do to you?" the girl asks despondently.

Stiles glances to Peter because he doesn't understand the question, not that he owes the human an answer, but it would be nice to at least know what the hell she means. He also doesn't understand why she's still crying when she's no longer in danger of being attacked.

"You're upset," Peter says to her. "Jackson's bleeding; Stiles is also bleeding and barely holding onto control; and I'm trying reallyhard not to hold it against you two that what was possibly the best blueberry pie I've ever eaten is now splattered against that wall. I'm not entirely sure anyone here is really feeling up to this visit."

At Peter's words, Stiles looks around to take in the mess of the kitchen for the first time. He knows in one glance that Peter's suggestion that the others leave is a good one. He can feel the control slipping as the panic rises in his chest. Plates and glasses are smashed all over, there's blood mixed with the remnants of the cake all over the tile and counters, the pie is indeed smashed against the wall just beside Stiles.

 _Oh please God let me get this cleaned before the Alpha comes back._

* * *

"Maybe we should call it a day," Derek suggests. "Or take a break at least. You look like shit."

"Back at you," Isaac replies. "Just give me time to heal. I'm still good to go a few more rounds."

Plus it's kind of interesting to get flashes of your past. It's not like you ever talk about it. College, your family, you never talk about anything but pack business.

"If you're sure," Derek concedes.

"I've seen how bad Stiles needs this. I'm sure."

I can't handle seeing him like this any more than you can. He doesn't deserve to keep living like this, and I can't take seeing the fear in his eyes all the time.

He winces as an aftershock of pain from the forced memory twinges in his head.

"They were doing this to him for months, Derek," he says, sick with the thought of it. "Eating away at his memories while they trained him into—whoever the hell he is now."

"I know," Derek replies quietly, eyes shut tight like he's trying to erase the images of terrified Stiles as hard as Isaac is.

"You really think we can reverse it?" Isaac asks.

"We can damn sure try."

They share a few more minutes of silence before Derek's phone starts ringing.

"Jackson?" he asks as he answers.

"I want to help with whatever you're doing to get Stiles' memory back," Jackson says from the other end of the line, the undercurrent of panic evident in his voice. "Are you at Deaton's?"

"Jackson, did you see Stiles?" Derek replies.

"Lydia wanted to see him; she though familiar people would help."

You fucking idiot, Isaac seethes. How could you be that stupid?

"Dammit, I told all of you he doesn't remember anything."

"I know, but we—we didn't think it was this bad."

No one could've pictured it being this bad.

"Well, it is," Derek snaps back. "What happened? Is everyone okay?"

"He shifted on Lydia, but I stopped him before he attacked. Peter talked him down."

"Good."

"Have you seen him try to control the shift yet? He—"

"Uses pain, I know."

"He stabbed himself with a fork like it was the most natural thing in the world," Jackson expounds, and Isaac honest to God thinks he might throw up just hearing it. "I mean, what the fuck, Derek? What did they do to him?"

"The easier question would probably be what didn't they do to him," Derek answers morosely.

"Motherfuckers, I—ugh!" There's a dull thud on the other end of the line as Jackson takes out some of the frustration by hitting what sounds like his steering wheel. "I want to help," he says again. "Are you still at Deaton's?"

"Yeah."

"I just dropped off Lydia. I'll be there soon."

* * *

"Peter, no," Stiles says as the Second reaches for the broom to help clean the mess of the kitchen. "It's my fault. Please let me."

"It's not your fault."

"I know I fucked up, but I can be useful. I can clean it up. All of it. I promise, Peter."

"If you want to, I'm not going to stop you," Peter replies with a shrug.

He walks back to the den and leaves Stiles to his penance. Stiles knows this isn't enough. He can clean, but there's no changing the fact that he cost the Alpha plates and glasses and food. What's worse, so much worse, he lashed out against a higher betaand the Second. It's more luck than he deserves that none of his blows actually hit Peter, but what he did to the other beta—Jackson?—is more than enough to bring Derek's wrath. He tries to focus on cleaning, but he can feel the tremors in his hands starting already.

You never, ever strike a superior pack member, the authoritative voices of past alphas echo in his mind, I don't care if they're beating you senseless. If you raise a hand against them, you lose the hand. Do you understand, you worthless little shit?

He pushes past the panic because he has to at least get the kitchen in order before Derek gets back. It's the one, small thing Stiles can do in an attempt—albeit a pathetic attempt—to show he's not entirely useless and burdensome. He succeeds in keeping the terror at bay until he begins to clean the pie from the wall. It's clear within a few minutes that the ugly purple stains aren't going to wash completely off the wall no matter how desperately Stiles scrubs. He can't stop the whimper that escapes him.

"Stiles?" Peter says from the den.

The one simple task of cleaning the kitchen and you're not even good for that. How can you expect to be kept when all you do is fuck up because you're too stupid to understand what Derek wants and how his pack works? What use are you?

Stiles can feel the tears of shame brimming in his eyes and threatening to spill over. The panic is so suffocating he can barely breathe, and he grips the edge of the counter hard for support. He looks to the knife block next to the stove and almost reaches for one but decides against it. They all seem unhappy when he uses the pain for control, better to hold off as long as he can.

"Stiles?" Peter repeats, standing to walk into the kitchen this time.

"What happens when the Alpha gets back?" he dares to ask softly as he turns to face Peter.

If I know what he'll do, I can take it better. I can prepare myself for whatever's coming and show Derek I can take the punishment—beating or fucking or whatever I deserve for this—so he'll see I really can learn from it. I need to show him I can be taught how to act in the Hale Pack. I can be useful. I don't want to be a burden.

"We'll have a nice memorial service for the pie and be thankful for the stain on the wall we have to remember it by," Peter replies with a grin.

Stiles fails to see what could possibly be amusing right now.

"Shit, Stiles, look at you. You're really scared of him, aren't you?" Peter asks, grin replaced with a more somber look Stiles finds much more appropriate to the moment. "What do you think is going to happen? Which Alpha Pack rule did you break?"

"If you raise a hand to a superior pack member, you lose the hand," he answers quietly.

"That's not going to happen," Peter assures him. "We don't rank the betas in this pack. What happened with Jackson doesn't matter. The only superiors you have to worry about are me and Derek."

"You had to stop me though; I must've done something to you before you—"

"Nothing Derek needs to know about."

"You can't lie to the Alpha!"

"I'm not going to lie," Peter replies calmly, "but I can leave that part out if he asks me about what happened."

"Why would do that?"

Why would you risk withholding it? You risk bringing punishment on yourself if he finds out. Why don't you just let me take it now?

"I want to help you, Stiles. I don't want to see you punished for fighting; it wasn't your fault."

"You shouldn't risk it when there's so much else; it won't matter if he doesn't know what I did in the fight. I still keep fucking up. I've been here two days and nothing I've done has been useful to the pack. If I'm not being useful, I'm being a burden, and I ambeing a burden, Peter. I shift when I'm not supposed to. I don't understand the instructions Derek gives me. I make him so angry, and I can't figure out why."

"Don't worry. You'll figure out your place in the pack before long."

"I know my place, Peter. I do, but he hasn't given me anything to do to make up for everything I do wrong, not a punishment to learn from or anything. I can be a good beta; I can be useful. I don't want to be a burden. I know what happens when you burden the pack, and I can be better than this. I swear I can, Peter."

"Stiles—"

He shouldn't speak over Peter, but he's completely frazzled from stress and fear and the overwhelming, bone-crushing feeling that his chance to prove he belongs here is slipping through his fingers. He can't help the pleas that continue to pour unbidden through his lips, "I swear I can do whatever the pack needs. I swear. I'll do anything, everything if Derek will just tell me what to do, but he hasn't given me rules or orders or jobs. I have to do something if I'm going to stay. Derek said to just do what I want, but that's what I was doing when I followed your directions and cooked and all that did was make him mad. I just—" he loses his battle to hold back his tears as he falls to his knees, head in his hands, and confesses miserably, "I just don't understand what I'm supposed to do."

He can't stop himself from begging for the one chance at purpose he has besides Derek, "Peter, please. You're the Second. You can give orders; you can help me. Derek said it was okay to want things, and I want you to tell me what I'm supposed to do. I want to be useful. I want someone to tell me how to be useful. Please, Peter. Please."

I need someone to tell me before I go crazy trying to figure it out on my own. Tell me before I fuck up so badly Derek decides I'm not worth the trouble. Please, please just tell me how to earn my place here because I don't understand anything anymore and I just need something that makes sense.

"We really must confuse the hell out of you," Peter says pityingly, moving slowly to stand directly in front of Stiles. "Your life was so much simpler before this."

Stiles doesn't respond; it's not his place to criticize Derek's pack, but it doesn't make Peter's words any less true.

Though he keeps his eyes down, he can feel Peter's gaze on him, studying him a few moments more before asking, "So you wantsomeone to tell you how to be useful, Stiles?"

"Yes, Peter, please." More than anything.

"You said 'anything and everything'."

"Anything I can do, Peter," he assures, lifting his eyes to Peter's face.

"Anything?" Peter repeats, and there's a lascivious glint in his eye that Stiles knows too well to mistake.

"Yes, Peter."

Anything but sitting here feeling like a failure to the pack. Anything I can do.

"If you want to be useful, then I want to help you," Peter says as he reaches down and cups Stiles' face in one hand more tenderly that Stiles can ever remember being touched. He smiles warmly down at Stiles, "Okay?"

"Yes, Peter."

"No matter how confusing things are with Derek, this can be simple," Peter promises, thumb gently brushing Stiles' lips, "one simple way you can be useful to your pack by fulfilling the need of your Second. No matter how long it takes you to understand how everything else works, this will be one way to keep yourself from being a burden."

"Thank you, Peter."

Peter reaches to unbutton his jeans, and Stile takes over from there, tension leaving him as he eases into the comfortable rhythm of moves he's done countless times before: unzipping Peter's jeans, pulling down his boxers, and working his way up to taking Peter deep into his throat, gag reflex long forgotten through months of training.

This is something Stiles understands. Something that's mercifully simple, a way to be useful even if he fucks up everything else. He does every trick he knows to make sure Peter understands just how grateful he is to have this.

Please don't promise me this and take it away. You're right. I do need something simple, Peter, please.

But he doesn't think Peter will go back on his word. Peter's murmuring encouragements, not demands; his fingers run through Stiles' hair and grip tight but not enough to hurt; and when he finally comes he says Stiles' name like he's something precious.

 _Something useful. Not a burden, something to be kept._

* * *

Peter answers on the fourth ring.

"Derek?"

"Yeah, it's me. I wanted to call because Jackson came to help us too," Derek informs him. "We're going to stay a little later than we thought since Isaac doesn't have to handle it on his own anymore."

"Then I take it you heard about Jackson and Lydia's catastrophic surprise visit this afternoon?" Peter asks.

"Yeah, I heard. How's Stiles?"

"Well, once I promised him you weren't going to beat the shit out of him for trying to beat the shit out of Jackson, he calmed down a little."

"I'll promise him myself," Derek offers. "Hand him the phone."

"He's showering," Peter replies. "I told him to get cleaned up once the kitchen was done."

"Tell me you didn't make him clean up the mess by himself."

"He begged me not to help," Peter replies, "What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to help him anyway! How's he going to understand we're different if you keep playing to all his conditioning from the alphas?"

"We can't all run away to the clinic when his issues freak us out," Peter snaps back.

"Fuck you," Derek retorts as guilt surges through him.

"Look, Derek, I'm making due. The kid was going to stress if I helped clean, so I didn't. I'm not going to apologize for doing what he wanted to keep him calm."

"Just—don't take advantage of the situation."

Who am I kidding? You thrive on taking advantage of the situation.

"If he wants to cook or something again, that's fine. You need to make sure he eats dinner anyway," Derek continues, "but no more fucking feasts and shit just because you think it's cool to have a servant. Got it?"

"Yes, O Mighty and Wise Alpha," Peter replies with a huff. "Anything else?"

"Just—tell him again I'm not pissed," Derek says, "and I'm not gonna be pissed. Tell him not to worry about that."

He won't believe you. He'll still worry, but tell him anyway.

"Sure," Peter agrees. "See you when you get home. Don't kill yourself trying to rush and get memories he doesn't want anyway."

"He needs them whether he thinks he wants them or not," Derek replies. "We're going to make this work."

He hangs up the phone and tosses it to the side.

"Peter's juts being an asshole," Jackson mutters.

Like you're one to talk.

"Don't listen to him. Come on, I'm healed up," he adds. "Let's go again. Here's hoping for something a little more interesting than your Hot-Wheels-themed seventh birthday party this time."

* * *

Thank you for reading this chapter! Remember reviews and favoring keeps this going!

 ** _Stay a sourwolf ~AlphaHook_**


	6. Chapter 5

"Morning, Stiles," Derek greets as he walks into the kitchen.

"Good morning, Derek," Stiles replies, he's watching Derek carefully out of the corner of his eyes, and Derek isn't sure why until he sees the poured bowl of cereal, spoon, and milk jug waiting for him on the kitchen counter.

He hates this. He hates that Stiles doesn't understand why Derek doesn't want to be waited on. He stamps down the frustration that's building and forces a smile because otherwise Stiles will misinterpret the anger. They don't need a repeat of yesterday's lunch.

"Is this for me?" he asks though he knows the answer.

"Yes, Derek."

"Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No, Derek."

"Would you like some cereal, too?"

"Yes, Derek, thank you."

Derek's confused at first when Stiles walks past the cabinet where the bowls are kept. Then he sees the second bowl and spoon Stiles laid out in the corner beside the microwave. It's something easily ignored if Derek didn't offer Stiles anything, but nevertheless a sign that Stiles was hopeful Derek would.

 _Baby steps._

Stiles catches Derek watching him and freezes.

"That's good, Stiles," he says, smile much more genuine this time. "Any time you make something for me, you can make yourself the same—more even, if you want, okay?"

"Yes, Derek, thank you."

"Thank _you_ for having the cereal out," Derek replies. "I appreciate it."

"I'm glad, Derek," Stiles says, genuine smile of his own coming out.

"You don't have to stand over there. You can sit here if you want," Derek says, gesturing to the bar stool next to him. "Only if you want," he adds again when Stiles looks unsure.

Stiles comes to sit. Derek would like to think it's because _Stiles_ wants to, but they both know it's because Stiles just wants to do whatever he thinks _Derek_ wants him to do. Derek still doesn't know how to explain everything in a way Stiles can understand—hell, he's honestly still hoping the memories come along fast enough that they only have to deal with _this_ Stiles a few more days—but he's got to start trying to talk to him. Peter's 'we can't all run away to Deaton's…' yesterday keeps playing on a loop in the back of his mind.

"I know yesterday was kind of stressful," Derek says.

 _Understatement._

"And I kind of made a beeline for the bed and crashed when I got back yesterday," Derek continues. "I didn't stop to ask if you were okay?"

"Yes, Derek, of course."

"'Cause it's okay to be pissed or freaked or confused or whatever. There was a lot going on."

"I'm okay, Derek," Stiles assures him.

 _No, you're not, but at least you think you are._

"Good. That's good."

Derek finishes his first bowl and pours a second. Stiles hands him the milk helpfully.

"Thank you, Stiles."

"I'm happy to help, Derek. Anything."

"I know, Stiles," he replies wearily, "and if I _need_ your help, I'll ask for it, but in the meantime, you should do what makes _you_ happy."

"Yes, Derek."

"And don't let Peter bully you into doing what he wants. You have just as much right to everything in this apartment as him—the TV, the food, the books, whatever. You can do what you want regardless of what Peter wants to do. Treat this place like it's yours. You understand?"

"Yes, Derek," Stiles replies automatically; it's a lie, but Derek doesn't have the heart to call him on it. More to the point, he doesn't have the words to explain it any better.

The sound of a key in the lock takes both Derek and Stiles' attention from the conversation for a moment. Stiles tenses automatically, no doubt remembering yesterday's surprise visit.

"It's okay," Derek assures him. "It's probably just Isaac. I'm giving him a ride to Deaton's."

Stiles relaxes just a bit.

"Hey, it's just me," Isaac says, affirming Derek's words as the door swings open.

"Morning," Derek greets. "Had breakfast?"

"Cindy made oatmeal," Isaac replies, speaking of his foster mother, "and let's just say I'm not entirely sure it counted as food at all."

"Help yourself to some cereal."

"I can get it for—" Stiles begins to offer.

"No, Stiles, Isaac can do it himself," Derek says firmly.

He regrets it immediately as Stiles head tucks back down, and he murmurs meekly, "Yes, Derek."

"But it was nice of you to offer," Isaac says, "Derek just wants you to finish your cereal before it gets soggy. Right, Derek?"

"Exactly," Derek agrees with a nod, grateful Isaac's better at this than he'll ever be.

"So Scott's coming today too," Isaac says. "I know there's still only so much you can do; you were totally exhausted yesterday. He wanted to help though, so I figured it couldn't hurt."

"It'll be good to split it up. It was taking you and Jackson a while to heal by the time we got finished last night."

They'd hoped it would get easier with time, but, while at least the headaches with the memories seem to decrease in intensity, the physical wound still takes a decent chunk of time to heal. After being reopened so many times, Isaac's has still only healed to a thin, pink scar on the back of his neck.

"If you break something, it will heal more quickly," Stiles advises Isaac helpfully. "It will spike your healing so Derek can give or take more frequently."

There are so many things wrong with that statement—that Stiles remembers clearly how to expedite his healing so the alphas could continue their sick little experiment on him, that he's offering up the advice so flippantly now in what he clearly thinks is a normal, helpful-tip-sharing kind of way, that this is one of the longest coherent sentences he's uttered in front of Derek—but the worst by far is the fact that Stiles clearly doesn't understand the work they're doing with the memories is really just to help him; he offers the advice as a way Isaac can be most helpful to Derek as though that's the key point, as though Derek is using the betas for his own benefit, not that they've volunteered themselves so they can help a friend and packmate.

"Derek, I'm sorry," Stiles says, the too familiar terror back in his voice. "Of course you have your own methods with the memories; I didn't mean to speak out of place. I just wanted to help, Derek. I thought—"

"I'm not mad at you, Stiles," Derek replies as Stiles stars to slide forward off his stool, presumably headed to his knees again. "Please don't kneel."

"I won't, Derek," Stiles promises. "Thank you, Derek."

"Don't _thank_ me, Stiles. Don't _thank_ me for not wanting you to _kneel_ at my fucking feet. You haven't done anything to make me mad. I'm pissed at them, not at you, you understand? I'm mad at _them_ for doing this to you, for teaching you to be this way."

"But, Derek, I can learn to be different. If you'll teach me, I can learn. Whatever you want, Derek."

"Goddammit, Stiles, that's not the _point_!" he replies, fist slamming into the counter in frustration before he can think better of it.

Stiles scrambles backwards, toppling the stool in his retreat.

"Derek, you're not helping!" Isaac rebukes, stepping between Stiles and Derek. "Calm down."

"Fuck," Derek mutters, running his hands through his hair and trying desperately to rein in his rage. "Shit, Stiles, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm not going to hurt you. I lost my temper; I'm sorry."

Isaac turns his back to Derek so he can face Stiles. He can see from where he sits that Stiles is quaking against the wall. Isaac lays his hands gently on Stiles' trembling shoulders.

"Hey look at me," he requests, voice soft like he's talking to a frightened animal. Stiles' eyes rise from the floor to Isaac's face, and Isaac continues, "I promise he isn't going to hurt you."

 _We've told him that a million times; he doesn't ever believe it._

"I know that you always assume your Alpha's anger is your fault," Isaac says. "You believe that because that's what the alphas taught you. They told you it was always your fault, but _they lied_. You didn't do anything wrong, Stiles. You haven't done anything wrong. None of it is your fault. That anger, the way Derek is always mad, it's never directed at you; it's directed at things that hurt you. I know it scares you, but it shouldn't. That's not anger he would use _against_ you, that's anger he would use to _protect_ you, you understand? Because Derek wants to make sure nothing ever hurts you like the Alpha Pack did, not ever again. You're Hale Pack now, and he wants to protect you. We all want to protect you."

 _Holy shit somebody give this kid a counseling degree._

Stiles' eyes stay trained on Isaac a few moments more, absorbing the words, before he looks past Isaac to Derek.

"It's the truth, Stiles, I swear," Derek says earnestly. "Please believe it."

 _It's what I've been trying and failing to make you understand the past three days._

There's a flicker of hope on Stiles' face, and it's the most reaction he's shown to any of the assurances Derek's given him so far. It's another moment or two more before Stiles nods slowly.

"Yes, Derek."

Isaac's phone rings from the counter, making the all jump and shattering the moment of sincerity.

"Scott's ringtone," Isaac says. "He's probably at the clinic."

"We should go."

 _While we can still leave on a good note without him terrified of me._

"Think about what I told you," Isaac tells Stiles. "It's okay if it's confusing. I'll explain it to you as many times as it takes until it makes sense, okay?"

"Yes."

"Don't let Peter control the TV all morning. Find the cooking channel or something. We'll see you at lunch, okay?"

* * *

"You're really good with him," Derek says as they get into the car.

Isaac shrugs off the compliment.

"I mean it," Derek says again.

"They made me go to the counselor when I went back to school after the clusterfuck with my dad and running away and everything," Isaac replies. "Most of it was kind of bullshit, but some of the stuff she said made sense."

"You were repeating what she told you?"

"Some of it."

Derek pauses a minute before asking, "What about the part rationalizing why I'm pissed off all the time?"

 _Fuck, I walked right into that one; how could I be such an idiot?_

"She thinks you're my foster brother, not my alpha," Isaac confesses. "Of course, _now_ we know that Ms. Morrell's known about the werewolf thing all along, so maybe she did know it was you."

"You thought I was mad at you all the time?"

"You're kidding right?"

"What?"

"Well, yeah, what with the yelling, and the way you were at training, and the general lack of verbal communication, I kind of just assumed it must be me. My dad was always pissed at me, so why shouldn't you be?"

"Shit, Isaac."

"It's cool; I know you're not a total asshole now," Isaac assures him with a grin, trying to lighten the moment, but Derek doesn't seem to find it funny. "Hey, seriously," Isaac adds. "It's not a big deal anymore."

"I turned you to get you away from your dad."

"I know."

"And then I'm just as bad as he was."

"Not exactly," Isaac counters. "And you got better."

"That's so fucked up."

"Our whole lives are fucked up, dude. None of this is easy. You had your own shit to deal with. We all did. We all still do."

"That's not an excuse. I'm your Alpha."

"You were focused on keeping us alive; you didn't have time to think about everything else."

"All I managed to do was keep _you_ alive," Derek replies, "but only because you were still in Beacon Hills. We both know Scott's the only reason you stayed."

"We've had this discussion before, Derek. What happened to Boyd and Erica wasn't your fault. They _chose_ to leave. What were you going to do? Hold them hostage? You're not that kind of alpha."

"I should've known the Alpha Pack was so close."

"Stop it," Isaac demands. "Stop it, right now. We're not doing this. You're not doing this."

He can see the guilt written all over Derek's face even though Derek's gritting his teeth the way he does when he's determined to keep his face blank. Isaac wishes he'd just kept his damn mouth shut. Derek doesn't need this right now, no matter how honest Isaac's words are.

"I wasn't kidding when I said our lives are fucked up," Isaac continues in an effort to undo some of the damage. "All any of us are doing is the best we can. You're no exception, _and_ you have the added pressure of being responsible for a whole pack. We _are_ actually a pack now. You're not the same anymore; you run it differently. Why do you think Scott didn't leave as soon as the threat was eliminated? Jackson and Lydia stuck around too. If you were the same alpha you were eight months ago, everyone would be gone by now, but they're not going anywhere because it's honestly been good to be in the pack." At Derek's huff of disbelief he concedes, "Well, aside from the whole near-death bits with the alphas, but those weren't your fault. It'll be even better now with the alphas gone; it'll be easier. It already is—except for the shit with Stiles."

"Which we're going to fix," Derek insists. "Soon."

"Exactly," he agrees, and because everyone knows the best way to get Derek out of a funk is to give him a challenge so he has something to get his mind off of it, Isaac adds, "So stop beating yourself up when we both know you did the best you could, and you learned from your mistakes. We don't have time for that. We've got work to do."

* * *

Stiles makes the coffee and scrambles the eggs to have them ready at ten as Peter instructed he should do every morning. When Peter walks in smiling at five after ten, Stiles has his place already set at the bar.

"Excellent job, Stiles," Peter compliments.

"Thank you, Peter."

"I thought I heard a little noise this morning. Everything all right?"

"Yes, Peter. I just—I got confused, but Isaac said Derek wasn't mad at me."

"I'm sure he wasn't," Peter agrees, sipping at his coffee. "Did he give you any jobs to do yet?"

"He told me he would ask for help when he needed it, and, in the meantime, I should do what makes me happy," Stiles reports.

"Well, that's annoyingly vague for you, as per usual."

Stiles agrees, but he isn't quite bold enough to criticize his Alpha out loud.

"Isaac said I should watch the cooking channel," Stiles adds, trying not to sound too hopeful; no matter what Derek said earlier, he doesn't think he could work up the courage to watch something Peter doesn't want to.

"That's not a bad idea; I'm sure you could learn something from it. If you see something you'd like to cook. I'll get the ingredients for you."

"Thank you, Peter."

"Did Derek say when he'd be back?"

"Isaac said they would see us for lunch," Stiles replies. "I could cook something."

"Do you _want_ to cook something?"

"Yes, Peter, but—but yesterday…"

"We went a bit overboard yesterday. Today we'll keep it simple, and it should be fine."

"Yes, Peter."

* * *

"Dude, something smells awesome," Isaac says as they walk in the apartment.

"Spaghetti," Stiles answers turning to greet them with a grin. "I made lunch." His eyes glance to Derek worriedly, "I _wanted_ to, Derek."

"I'm glad you did," Derek replies, needing more than anything to keep that smile and get rid of the uncertainty on Stiles' face. "That's awesome. We're starving."

Stiles grin widens. "I made plenty. I didn't know if Scott and Jackson would come too."

"Maybe another day," Derek replies. "I'll give you a heads up when they're coming."

 _I'm not sure they really want to see you like this anymore anyway, and I'm not risking overwhelming you._

"Hey, Lydia sent you something," Isaac says.

"Lydia?"

"The human that came with Jackson yesterday," Peter supplies helpfully. "Remember the overenthusiastic red-head with a tendency to cry a lot?"

"She sent _me_ something?"

Stiles looks between the three of them trying to understand what he's missing.

"She sent it with Jackson this morning," Isaac expounds. "I think she felt bad for catching you off guard yesterday. It's some pictures and stuff; she wrote little explanations for you."

"Yeah, that shouldn't be horribly confusing at all," Peter mutters.

"She's trying to help," Derek retorts.

It's a nice gesture, and a damn good idea overall. Lydia must've worked almost constantly after she left here yesterday. Derek can understand that though, needing to feel like she's _doing_ something to help. He's not entirely sure how Stiles is going to react to it, but he hopes it helps on some level.

"I'll stick it on the couch, okay? You can take a look later if you want," Isaac says.

Stiles clearly isn't sure what the hell the correct reaction to any of this is, so he nods and turns his attention back to the pasta sauce.

"So what'd you do this morning?" Isaac asks, moving them past the awkward silence.

"We watched the Food Network," Stiles replies.

"Highly educational," Peter adds. "Stiles paid excruciatingly close attention. He's preparing lamb for dinner."

"Because _Stiles_ wants to or because _you_ want him to?" Derek asks.

"Stiles wants to," Peter replies. "Don't you, Stiles?"

Stiles hesitates, looking unsurely from Peter to Derek; he's picked up on the fact that Derek's not thrilled with this plan but doesn't seem sure how to proceed.

 _Fuck, I should've just gone with it._

"Yes, please, Derek?" Stiles answers cautiously.

"That would be great, Stiles, thank you," Derek replies with a glare to Peter once Stiles' back is turned.

 _You know damn well he's going to follow your lead on questions like that. I can't tell him 'no' without feeling like an asshole because he doesn't understand. Dammit Peter, step enjoying this so much. I know he used to be a snarky ass to you, but you kind of deserved that. It doesn't mean you turn him into your personal chef now._

Peter shrugs unapologetically before asking, "Are you actually going to be back for dinner tonight?"

"Things this morning were good, so we'll keep at it and see where it goes. We overdid it yesterday, so we should be home earlier tonight."

"Especially if Stiles is cooking lamb," Isaac adds.

"So your control's better?" Peter asks.

"It's getting there."

"I want to help," Stiles blurts. It's clear he's worked himself up to get the sentence out because it was practically all one word. He tenses for Derek's reaction as he continues, "I know you said you would ask for my help if you needed it, Derek, but I _want_ to help. I'm pack, Derek; I should help, too."

 _The whole point of doing this at Deaton's is to keep you out of it. I can't do that to you, Stiles. I can't. Not until we're absolutely sure it can help. I can't see you hurt on top of everything else. It's hard enough to hurt the others._

"I appreciate that, Stiles," Derek says, "I _really_ do, but the truth is I can barely keep it up alternating between three of them. If we need a fourth, I'll ask you."

"Yes, Derek."

"Besides," Isaac adds. "None of us can cook as good as you. We need you here."

Derek nods. "Right."

"Yes, Derek. However I can be useful."

"Thanks, Stiles."

"Of course, Derek."

* * *

Derek and Isaac insist on helping to clean the kitchen before they leave for the clinic. Stiles still doesn't understand Derek's reluctance to be waited on. Perhaps it's an assertion of power, a reminder that he doesn't _need_ anything from his betas. He's the Alpha, though, and Stiles knows his place; he doesn't need this reminder. Anything he does for Derek is something he's _allowed_ to do to feel useful, not something the alpha truly _needs_ his assistance to accomplish.

Once they're gone, Stiles finds himself on the couch staring at the black book Isaac deposited there earlier. Stiles knows it's called a scrapbook; it should be filled with pictures of things. Beyond that he has no idea what to expect when he opens it. He debates a while just placing it to the side to be forgotten, but Derek wouldn't have had Isaac leave it if he didn't think it was something Stiles should see.

He opens the cover slowly. On the first page is a handwritten note.

"Dear Stiles,

I know this is all really confusing for you, and I hate that. I know being there in person wouldn't be any use to you right now, so this is the best I can do. I really do hope this helps, even a little. We're all pulling for you.

Love, Lydia"

He turns the page to see his face staring back at him from an array of pictures.

 _Wait, no, that isn't me._

The boy in the pictures looks too different. There's something—his eyes maybe? Or his face? Or the way he stands? Stiles can't entirely put his finger on it—too foreign for this to really be him. He wonders for a moment if this could be some elaborate trick, but there's no lesson to learn from this, no benefit he can see for Derek. This only adds to his confusion, which won't help him assimilate into the pack the way Derek wants him to.

He wonders next if there's been a mistake somehow. They all think he's this boy in the pictures, but what if he's someone else entirely? What if he hasn't lost any memories? Maybe this boy they all seem to care so much about is somewhere else out there, and they just haven't found him yet.

 _Maybe I'm not Stiles._

But _Stiles_ is the one Derek will keep in his pack, the one Derek wants to protect, the one they're trying to get back. _Stiles_ is the one with a place here.

 _So then what happens to me if I'm not him?_

Even if this isn't a mistake, even if these pictures are all things he remembers when Derek 'fixes' him, Stiles can't begin to fathom being the boy in these pictures. This boy is who they want and who they miss—the boy making faces at a camera, the boy ice skating with Lydia, the boy dousing Scott with a water gun—not the serious, well-trained beta he's become.

"It's a lot to take in," Peter says quietly, coming behind the couch to lay a hand on Stiles' shoulder.

"What if I can't be like this?" Stiles asks fearfully. "What if it doesn't work when Derek tries to fix me?"

"You don't have to worry about that, remember?" Peter replies. "You're useful just as you are."

Stiles draws a shaky breath, calming himself with the promise in Peter's words, and nods.

"Yes, Peter."

"Come," Peter beckons. "Let's see if we can't give you a little clarity."

Stiles feels relief wash over him as he closes the books, casts it aside, and follows Peter down the hall.

 _Something simple. Something that can always be simple._

* * *

"How is he, Derek?" the sheriff asks over the phone.

Derek's been ignoring the calls all day, but reminded him that if Derek didn't answer the sheriff might go to the apartment which would be _so_ much worse.

"Better," Derek tells him. "Still a long way to go, but he's better. He's okay for now."

"And the memory control?"

"We've got good progress. A day or two more and I should be able to start giving him memories. We can start getting Stiles back."

The sheriff lets out a mirthless laugh, "Oh, son, I think we both know we're never getting Stiles back, not really."

The sheriff sounds wrecked, not that Derek would expect anything less. The man spent months with the pack tirelessly searching for his son, holding out hope that they'd find him alive.

 _Well, we found him alive; the problem is you still haven't really gotten your son back._

"I know you're going to try," the sheriff says earnestly. "But if this really goes the way we want it to, if he _does_ get the memories back, the bad will come with the good. We don't get to reset to the Stiles that disappeared; we get the one the alphas had for four months."

 _You think I haven't thought about that? We're going to trade one mindfucked Stiles for another. I just hope to God we're trading for the lesser of two evils. I can't think about that; it's all I can do to handle one problem at a time. I have to hope we can get most of him back through the memories and that we can figure out the rest as it comes._

"He'll be okay," Derek insists.

 _Eventually at least. He has to be. He's Stiles._

"I hope you're right."

"I'll call you if there're any updates."

"When can I see him?"

"He attacks anything that isn't pack on instinct," Derek replies. "It's not safe yet, not for you or for him. You've seen what he'll do to himself to control the shift."

"You can't teach him to control it like the rest of you?"

"He doesn't have any memories to use as an anchor."

"You could try."

 _Controlling the shift is so far down the list of priorities I can't even tell you._

"Sheriff—he's—look he's—he'll be fine, but there's only so much we can throw at him at a time."

 _There's only so much I can handle with him at a time. I'm still trying to make it through meals without me losing my temper and him panicking. We're nowhere near anything as complicated as teaching him how to control the shift._

"As soon he can control it, as soon as it's safe—"

"You'll be the first to know."

"Derek?"

"Yeah?"

"Just—help him."

"I'll do everything I can," Derek promises.

* * *

"Clothes off," Peter instructs as he begins to remove his own.

"Yes, Peter."

Once Stiles stands completely naked he adds, "Good, now on the bed on your hands and knees."

"Yes, Peter."

Stiles stays still, breathing deeply in an effort to relax and move readily however Peter guides him; he's still just grateful Peter started this continuation of their arrangement with no command to run or fight until _forced_ to submit like so many of the Alpha Pack preferred.

Stiles is caught off guard when it's Peter's fingers that penetrate him first, but he knows better than to pull away at the shock of it. He's glad he didn't because he quickly understands and appreciates that Peter's trying to work him open gradually. He still can't stop the sharp gasp of pain that escapes him when Peter finally settles himself deep inside of him, but the intrusion just aches and stretches unpleasantly; it doesn't tear and rip at him the way it always has before with the alphas. He finds himself marveling again at how differently Peter goes about making use of him than any of the alphas ever did, hurting him as little as possible even in this show of dominance. It's more kindness than Stiles dared to expect.

"Go and shower," Peter instructs once he's finished with Stiles. "Shower _well_ ," he adds. "You don't want Derek to catch too much of my scent on you."

Panic surges through Stiles at the ominous tone in Peter's voice.

"I don't understand, Peter."

"Derek is your Alpha," Peter replies. "We both know that you respect his place as Alpha. Derek knows it too."

"Yes, Peter."

"But you know how possessive alphas are, don't you, Stiles?"

He flinches slightly at the unbidden memories the question draws to the surface.

"Yes, Peter."

"So you know what I mean when I tell you that if Derek, _your Alpha_ , catches my scent on you, those possessive instincts will kick in, and he'll have no choice but to remind you who you belong to. He'll _have_ to remind you that he comes before the Second and that you must be loyal to him first."

"Yes, Peter," Stiles replies somberly, the picture of the scene all too vivid in his mind.

He's never had a Second before. The alphas all had equal entitlement to the betas in his last pack; any possessive claiming was just for show, just a game his alphas had indulged in whenever they required distraction from the ongoing fights. He can't help trembling at the thought of how much worse a _true_ demonstration of possession and dominance must be.

"Derek said himself if he needed something from you, he would ask, and he's told you dozens of times that he doesn't want to hurt you," Peter continues. "So if he hasn't asked, then he doesn't need _or_ want this from you, Stiles. That means Derek finding out would force him into something he doesn't want, and it would force him to hurt you which is _another_ thing he doesn't want. Is that a position you want to see your alpha in? Forced to do something that would make him unhappy because of you?"

"No , Peter. Never."

"Do you remember yesterday when I told you that Derek didn't need to know that you struck at me while you were fighting with Jackson?"

"Yes, Peter."

"Derek didn't need to know because you didn't need to be taught a lesson. You already knew that it was wrong, and I didn't want to see you punished for a rule you already understand. Do you see that?"

"Yes, Peter, thank you."

"This is no different. Derek doesn't need to show you what he has a right to do as your Alpha; you already know, and you would obey him _anything_ he asked, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Peter."

"That's good, Stiles. I know that you know your place, and I don't want to see you hurt for something you already understand better than any other beta in this pack. Do you understand why this is something that Derek doesn't _need_ to know about? You see what I'm trying to do for you? You see what I'm trying to protect you from?"

"Yes, Peter. Thank you."

"Good boy," Peter says, smiling down at him and running a hand through his hair. "Now, go shower. You'll need to start dinner soon."

"Yes, Peter," Stiles replies, scrambling to obey.

* * *

"Why the fuck isn't the control getting any more precise?" Derek rants. "This is such bullshit!"

He wants to shift and fight something. He wants a battle he can sink his teeth and claws into. He needs something to feel like he's _doing_ something and not just running in circles putting his betas through the pain for nothing.

"This is _exhausting_ ," Scott says. "Especially for you. Maybe we just need to call it a day."

"Stiles is cooking anyway," Isaac adds. "We have to at least take a break. He'll be disappointed if you're not there."

"Stiles is cooking?" Scott asks.

"It's one of the few things he learned from the alphas that seems normal enough. It gives him something to do while we try to figure this out," Isaac replies. "You two could probably come too if you want."

 _No. Say 'no'._

"Last time I was in the same room with him, he tried to eat Lydia and then stabbed himself with a fork; I'll pass," Jackson replies.

"Don't be an asshole; he couldn't help that!" Scott replies defensively.

 _He's not being an asshole. He's got the same kill-it-with-cynicism defense mechanism everyone else in this pack has but you, Scott._

"You want to come then, Scott?"

"Um—I think this version of Stiles kind of thinks I'm a bad influence? I don't know, I just—I don't know what to do with him like this? The other day talking to him was bad enough, but apparently that was the tip of the iceberg? I don't want to push it."

 _Neither of you want to see him like this. Fair enough. I don't particularly care to go home to it either. Unless I figure out how to get this frustration out, he's going to think I'm pissed at him all night anyway and Isaac or Peter will have to convince him I won't beat him within an inch of his life while I back away helplessly just getting more pissed because I can't control my temper well enough around him._

"We won't overwhelm him tonight," Derek agrees. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later, once we can start giving him memories."

 _Maybe once we get him back to normal—or normal enough._

"What if this doesn't work in the next couple days?" Isaac asks. "What if—"

"It will; it has to," Derek replies firmly.

"We can't stall and leave him sitting at the house with Peter forever."

"It won't take forever. It's getting better. I can at least keep to recent memories now. The control is coming it's just—"

"Not strong enough," Deaton chimes in, walking into the back. "I don't think anger's going to get you were you need to be with this, Derek."

"If it can stop the shift, it should be more than enough to—"

"I've been thinking," Deaton interrupts and Derek bites back a groan of frustration.

Advice from Deaton's really a fifty-fifty shot at getting something worthwhile. Half the time he gets all Philosophical Yoda on them and Derek stifles the urge to strangle him to make him shut up. The other half he's actually getting to the point and passing along really useful stuff.

"You have a very physical reaction to your anger, Derek, and you use it to control a physical change."

 _Thank you, Captain Obvious._

"And?' Derek prods.

"Memory control is different. It's not physical as much as it is mental and emotional. Maybe you need a different catalyst to _really_ master it."

 _What the fuck does that even mean? What the hell else would I use? Anger is the strongest emotion I've got._

"The anger is working; I just need more time. It'll be fine."

Deaton shrugs and walks past them into the back kennels. "It's just an idea."

Derek's pissed _and_ exhausted now. Scott, Jackson, and Isaac aren't exactly looking great or healing quickly. Derek thinks there's some merit to Scott's earlier suggestion

"Okay, Scott's right. Let's call it at day. We'll pick it up again in the morning."

* * *

It's past eleven when Isaac walks back to Derek's. He's sure Derek's fast asleep after the day he had and the run he took to try and work off some of the frustration so Stiles would stop quaking just from being in the same room as Derek too long. Peter's probably in his room so Isaac's really only worried about startling Stiles. He tries to make just enough noise to alert Stiles to his approach without waking anyone else.

"Stiles?" Isaac says quietly as he opens the door to the apartment. "I dunno if you're in here, but don't worry; it's just me."

"I'm here," Stiles confirms, and Isaac jumps as Stiles moves forward out of the shadows. "It's late. I didn't think any of you came over this late."

"My foster parents are pissed at each other," Isaac replies. "They're not actually yelling, but the whole werewolf hearing thing doesn't really lend itself to tuning out arguments. The house is just four or five blocks from Derek's, so I crash here sometimes."

"Oh."

"I know you've got dibbs on the couch, but I thought I'd steal the recliner if you don't care?"

"That's fine, Isaac."

Stiles turns to walk back to the den, and Isaac follows. Stiles has the TV muted, but it's tuned to the Food Network. Isaac's still proud of thinking of that particular programming suggestion. There's a half-eaten jar of peanut butter on the end table. Derek says it's the only thing in the kitchen Stiles will take without direct permission.

 _Well, at least he took one of Derek's have-this-if-you-want-it commands to heart. That's progress, right?_

"You want to watch something else?" Stiles asks. "Peter and Derek seem to like the sports channels better."

He offers the remote but Isaac doesn't take it.

"No, this is fine. I'm probably going to be asleep in five minutes or less anyway. I'm kind of beat."

Stiles eyes widen in alarm, and Isaac rushes to clarify, "No, not hurt. I meant 'beat' like tired, not 'beat' like actually beaten. Sorry that was maybe the worse word choice ever. Especially if I'm talking to you. My bad."

"You _are_ hurt though," Stiles says, "from the memories at least. Your neck still has the mark on it."

"It's not so bad. It'll be worth it."

"I wish Derek would let me help," Stiles confides quietly. "Taking the memories hurts all of you. It makes everyone so tired, especially Derek, and he comes back angry even if he tries to pretend he's not. Strategically it's nothing but a disadvantage to the pack. I wouldn't help much, but it would lessen the effects among the betas at least."

"Not everything's about strategy, Stiles."

 _You don't get that now, but you will. Eventually._

* * *

Isaac wakes to the sound of quiet whimpering.

"Stiles?"

Stiles is curled in a ball on the couch, one fist jammed against his mouth, stifling the noise even though he's fast asleep. There's no doubting he's in the middle of a nightmare. God knows he's got enough fodder for nothing but nightmares the rest of his life.

"Stiles," Isaac says, moving to wake him. "Hey, Stiles, wake up."

He jolts awake with a strangled cry when Isaac shakes his shoulder.

"Hey, shhh, it's okay. It's just me. You're okay," Isaac assures him.

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry, Isaac. I didn't mean—"

"It's okay. You looked like you were having a bad dream. You all right?"

"I'm fine; thank you, Isaac," Stiles replies, "You should sleep. You were tired."

Stiles is shaking and looks on the verge of tears. There's no way Isaac's going to just drift back to sleep and leave him awake to try and calm himself alone. Stiles needs a good distraction, and Isaac has just the thing.

"Nah, I'm awake now," he tells Stiles. "It's morning already anyways. A little coffee and I'll be fine. Hell, I might even make breakfast."

"You cook?"

"Not as good as you," Isaac replies and is rewarded by the small but proud smile on Stiles' face, "but I can handle pancakes."

"Pancakes?"

"Yeah, do you remember pancakes?"

"I know what they are."

"But you don't actually know what they taste like?"

"No."

 _Dear God, your life is so pathetic on so many different levels._

"Then we're _definitely_ not going back to sleep. We're making pancakes," Isaac informs him offering Stiles a hand up from the sofa before leading the way to the kitchen.

"Derek usually just wants cereal," Stiles tells him.

"Usually, "Isaac concedes, "But I happen to know that Derek is, in fact, a _huge_ sucker for blueberry pancakes." _His mom used to make them on Sunday mornings; I've seen the memory myself._ "Which, if we're lucky, means he probably has the stuff to make them stocked in the kitchen."

"There are blueberries," Stiles affirms. "Peter bought more after I made the pie."

His eyes flicker over to the stain that's still on the wall. Isaac's seriously considering drawing a smiley face into the biggest splotch in an attempt to get Stiles to stop staring at it guiltily every time he walks in the kitchen.

"Awesome, I'll grab all the stuff from the fridge; you grab the mix from the pantry and find us a pan."

* * *

 _Pancakes._

Stiles doesn't remember what they taste like, but if it's anything nearly as heavenly as the smell they make when they're cooking, he's going to love them. Even better, if this really is something Derek prefers for breakfast, Stiles might get away with making them often.

 _Don't get ahead of yourself. Derek hasn't even found out you're doing this yet._

"Okay, moment of truth," Isaac says as Stiles takes the first few out of the pan. "You have to try one before you keep going."

Stiles hesitates just a moment.

 _Any time you make me something, you can make yourself the same,_ Derek had told him. This is okay. This is allowed. Isaac's not trying to get him punished.

"Go on," Isaac encourages.

Stiles picks one up and takes a timid bite, followed quickly by a much bigger one because it's even better than he thought it was going to be.

"Awesome, right?" Isaac asks, grinning.

"Awesome," Stiles agrees wholeheartedly with a mouth full of fluffy, golden deliciousness.

Stiles continues to nibble at the pancake as they set back to work making more. By the time they hear Derek stirring down the hall, there's a sizeable stack. Stiles tries not to worry that Derek won't like this. He replays Derek's permission in his head over again a few more times. There's no logical reason he should be in trouble, but, nevertheless, anxiety builds as he hears Derek approach.

"Pancakes?" Derek asks hopefully as he comes into sight, the bright smile on his face completely dissipating Stiles' worry.

"Yes, Derek."

"Blueberry pancakes," Isaac expounds.

"You two are officially the new favorite betas, just don't tell the others."

"You mean we weren't before?" Isaac asked. "I'm hurt, Derek, really."

Stiles can tell from the tone of Isaac's voice and Derek's continuing smile that they're joking, and, while Stiles doesn't entirely understand what's amusing, he follows their lead and smiles along with them.

"Shut up, and pass me the syrup," Derek quips back. "These look perfect, Stiles," he adds. "Great job."

"Thank you, Derek."

"Hey, a little credit to the batter maker," Isaac cuts in. "It's a delicate art."

"It was Isaac's plan," Stiles admits.

"Well, thank you both then. This is awesome. It beats the hell out of cereal."

Stiles can't help smiling again. This is the most happy and relaxed he's _ever_ seen Derek. He's not sure what set it up exactly. Does Stiles owe it to Isaac's presence? Or the pancakes? Maybe he's just incredibly damn lucky today.

 _I'll ask Isaac later. He said he'd explain why Derek's angry as many times as I needed. Maybe he can explain this too. Maybe he can help me understand how to help keep Derek this happy._

Because Stiles wants more mornings like this. He wants Derek to grin across the kitchen at him. He wants to revel in how glad Derek is to see both his betas enjoy the pancakes just as much as their alpha. He wants this calm to keep pushing back the anxiety that usually consumes him.

 _And Derek says it's okay to want things._

Isaac gets Derek talking about the Mets. Stiles knows they're a baseball team but nothing beyond that. Stiles takes in their words but mostly just enjoys the animated way they talk about it and the fact that their voices rise out of excitement, not anger. Derek promises they can all go to a ballgame when Stiles feels up to it, but assures him there's no rush.

Stiles soaks in the pleasure of having Derek sit here with them, taking clear pleasure in the contentedness of his betas, not in their pain. Stiles thinks he's starting to see some of the truth in what Isaac said yesterday about Derek wanting to protect his pack.

 _Derek's glad that that we're enjoying this. He's glad that I'm not afraid. If I were hurt, I'd be afraid. If I'm afraid, Derek isn't glad; he's angry. Protecting me, protecting the other betas, makes us feel safer. It makes the pack unafraid so Derek can be glad of it?_

He still doesn't fully understand _why_ Derek would allow his contentedness to revolve so heavily around the state of his betas, but it's more clarity on the topic than he's had before. It's the most logic he's been able to apply to any of the explanations they've offered about how the Hale Pack works.

There's plenty of wrath in Derek; Stiles has seen bits of it even if he's never fully incurred it. His interactions with Derek should always reflect the respect he owes his Alpha and the understanding that he is at Derek's mercy while he's in this pack. Nevertheless, this morning reveals more clearly a new dynamic to be taken into consideration as he tries to please his Alpha. Understanding what Derek wants is a process so much more complicated than Stiles had first hoped, but he has something simple with his Second to hold on to while he figures it out his Alpha. He can take time to learn what he needs to do and how he needs to act to recreate good moments like this one.

 _I'm going to figure this out. I'm going to find ways to show Derek I'm not afraid so he can be glad of it. I'm going to learn how to make him smile like that as often as I can._

* * *

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	7. Chapter 6

"Derek, you have to use something besides anger, today," Scott insists. "You've wasted two days since Deaton suggested you try something else and we—"

"Wasted?" Derek repeats incredulously. "Wasted?"

"Yes!" Jackson agrees. "We're exactly where we were before. It's like beating our heads against the fucking wall. It doesn't make any sense. You haven't even tried-"

"I've been killing myself trying to figure this out!" Derek insists.

"Nobody's saying you're not trying, dude. We're all pissed and exhausted and frustrated as hell. That's why we've got to start changing it up instead of running in circles. We need something different," Isaac implores.

"If the anger doesn't work, nothing's going to work."

I don't have anything else to pull from. Nothing that's strong enough. Don't you idiots get that?

"Would you just fucking try?" Jackson pushes, his annoyed bitchface out in full force. "Because I have things to do besides serve as a living pincushion for this foray down memory lane."

"You have things to do?" Derek demands, closing the distance between them and scowling down at Jackson. "You're tired of this?You want to be done?"

"Derek, come on," Scott says, hand on Derek's shoulder trying to pull him away. "He didn't mean it like that. Chill out."

"I'm so sorry this is an inconvenience to you, Jackson," Derek continues scathingly. "I'm so sorry you feel victimized on behalf of your packmate who has enough trauma in his head to employ every shrink from here to the Atlantic! How could I ever do this toyou? What was I thinking?

Oh wait! Maybe I was thinking that getting Stiles his fucking life back is more important than our comfort and convenience! MaybeI was thinking that Isaac's spent the past three nights sleeping in the recliner at my place so he can wake Stiles up from nightmares that may never go away! Maybe I was thinking about how Stiles has to fucking maul himself to control the shift because he doesn't have enough decent memories to find an anchor and the full moon is in six days! Maybe every fucking thing I've done in the past week has been focused on helping him and if you get a little frustrated along the way at being a 'pincushion', you're just going to have to suck it the hell up like the rest of us."

"Gee, Derek, can't imagine why he'd find you scary," Jackson retorts, voice carefully unaffected.

Derek pushes him hard and pins him against the wall, gripping at his shirt collar. "Shut the hell up, Jackson," Derek orders, voice low and deadly.

"Derek, stop it! This isn't helping anything," Scott insists, pulling at Derek's arm.

"If you don't like the way I'm doing this, you can leave," Derek tells Jackson. "Otherwise, let me know when you three are healed up for the next round."

He shoves Jackson back against the wall again before releasing his collar and storming out the back.

* * *

Isaac follows Derek to finds him punching the shit out of the back wall of the clinic. After five or six solid connections that have to be breaking fingers, Derek lets out a growl of frustration and turns to lean wearily back against the brick, sinking to sitting with his head in his hands.

Ah, fuck, Derek. Why can't you ever just admit when shit's getting to you? Why's it always got to be an explosion like this?

Isaac moves to sit next to him.

"Feel better?" he asks.

"Fuck off, Isaac," Derek mutters.

"Guess not then."

"Anger is the strongest emotion I have," Derek tells him, a phrase he's been repeating through the last two days of infuriatingly unsuccessful memory work.

"I know."

It's practically radiating off you to one degree or another 99% of the time.

"If anger doesn't work, nothing will."

"You heard Deaton. It'll work, but it's not going to get as precise as you need it to be."

"I'll make the anger work."

No, you won't. You've got to try something else.

"Your hands are broken," Isaac says, nodding to Derek's bruised and bleeding knuckles.

"Better than Jackson's face," Derek grumbles in reply.

"True."

"He's right," Derek admits dejectedly. "No wonder Stiles is fucking terrified of me."

Isaac hates seeing Derek in moments like this. After the anger vents itself so intensely, there's not much left but the guilt or self-loathing or whatever other self-deprecating emotion that was driving the anger in the first place.

"You're doing the best you can. It's not your fault. This version of Stiles was always going to be scared of you. You're his Alpha."

"That's not an excuse."

"Here," Isaac says, placing his hands gingerly over Derek's to pull some of the pain and change the topic for at least a moment or two.

"You don't need to—"

"The better you feel the faster you heal," Isaac reminds him. "Your words, not mine."

Derek rolls his eyes but doesn't pull his hands away. They sit in silence a few minutes more. Isaac's trying to read something from Derek's face to gauge how bad this downward spiral might get, but Derek's keeping it carefully void of anything but anger as he glowers at the pavement.

"Okay, so anger's your strongest," Isaac concedes, "but what's second strongest? There's got to be something else."

"There's really not."

"Dude, come on, you're not that pathetic," Isaac teases.

Derek doesn't reply, but when his eyes meet Isaac's the unspoken Yes I am fucking shatters his heart. Isaac forgets too often that Derek's twenty-two with just as much emotional baggage—hell, more—weighing on him as the rest of them. It's easy to look past it, especially when Derek's always trying to bury it, but it's definitely still there.

"Derek, no," Isaac protests. "Don't look at me like that. There's not just anger in you. You've got plenty of other options."

"Yeah, sure," Derek scoffs.

"What was it before it was anger? There was something else before that; there had to be."

I've seen the old memories. I've seen what you used to be like, and it's nothing near the darkness in you now.

Derek's quiet so long Isaac's not sure he'll get a reply; he can't say he'd be surprised. It's kind of a personal question, and Derek's never been one to do the whole sharing and caring thing. The memories he's shared in the past several days have taught Isaac way more about Derek than the past eight months of knowing him.

"My family," Derek says finally.

Really should've seen that coming from a mile away.

"So what about the pack then?" Isaac asks.

"This pack isn't a family," Derek replies bitterly.

The words hurt more than they should, but Isaac tries not to show it. He'd be pissed at him for saying shit like that if Derek didn't look so fucking dejected right now.

"It's my family," Isaac counters with a shrug. "In case you forgot, you guys are pretty much the only thing I've got."

Derek looks back to him guiltily. "Isaac, I didn't mean—"

"Look, I know we all fight. We all suck at communication. We can annoy the piss out of one another. We butt heads and fight. We're dysfunctional as hell on several different levels, right down to the kooky uncle. I get that we're not even remotely perfect, but we don't have to be the Waltons to be a decent family. We've been to hell and back a couple times now, and we survive because we're together. Anyone in this pack would lay down his life for a packmate. That's what matters at the end of the day. I say that makes us a family in our own right, doesn't it?"

Derek's staring at him open-mouthed like Isaac just sucker punched him in the gut. Isaac looks away, suddenly embarrassed at the confession that sounds insanely cheesy now that he stops to think. Still, it doesn't make the argument any less true.

"Yeah," Derek agrees eventually. "Yeah, guess we are."

"So use that, you dumbass," Isaac urges. "At least give it a shot. If we're enough of a pack to endure against alphas, we should be enough of a pack to lend you a little feel-good memory mojo. You've just got to stop being a stubborn ass long enough to try it."

He reaches a hand to the back of his neck to check that the wound's closed up and ready to go again.

"Come on," he continues. "You don't even have to go back in and deal with Jackson first. Just focus on the pack and try again out here with me . If it doesn't work, we'll go back to the anger thing. Okay?"

Derek nods and raises a newly healed hand to the base of Isaac's skull.

 _Please let this work. Oh please, please, please or we're all going to lose our fucking minds with frustration. Please just let this work._

* * *

"Haven't you memorized that yet?" Peter asks coming to stand in front of Stiles and peering down at the scrapbook in Stiles' lap.

"Yes, Peter."

"Of course you have," he says with a sigh. "Stiles, I know that book just freaks you out. Why torture yourself?"

"This is who Derek wants me to be like. This is who he wants to fix me to be."

"That's because Derek can't recognize a fucking gift when it's staring him right in the face."

Stiles isn't entirely sure what Peter means by that, so he just reiterates, "When I'm more like this Stiles," he says, gesturing to the book, "he's less angry."

"So you memorize facts about a life you don't remember and study facial expressions your face has forgotten how to make? All so you can give Derek the illusion that you're relaxed and happy with him?"

"Derek doesn't it like it when he can tell I'm confused or afraid," Stiles replies, "so I should learn not to show it."

Peter reaches to touch Stiles' cheek gingerly and turn his face upwards.

"You're such an excellent, beta, Stiles," he says earnestly, "so eager to please."

"Thank you, Peter," Stiles replies, blushing at the praise.

"It's such a shame your Alpha can't see it," he adds.

"Derek has more important—"

"No, Stiles, he really doesn't," Peter replies. "There is no excuse for ignoring the promise in a beta like you. You should have an Alpha who appreciates you as you are, not one who's trying to reverse such impeccable training. A beta like you should never have to doubt his value to his Alpha. Derek should make such better use of you. He should let you know that you are the best and most precious of all the betas in this pack."

"Thank you, Peter," Stiles says again, trying to focus on the humbling praise and ignore the critique of the Alpha in the words.

"If we got away from Derek, if I were your alpha, I would never try to change you. You would always feel like an asset, never like a burden. I would make sure of it. I would appreciate how hard you work to please your Alpha and treat you with the care you deserve."

The unfaithfulness of the words frightens Stiles, and he doesn't know how to reply.

 _What are you saying, Peter? You can't be suggesting we turn our back on Derek and leave the pack. I must be confused. We can't leave. That kind of disloyalty is unforgivable. We can't._

"Would you like that, Stiles? Would you be a good beta for me?"

"Derek is my alpha," he reminds quietly.

He tries not to shudder at the way Peter's eyes darken at the comment.

"Yes, and I'm just your Second," he replies; the smooth flattery gone out of his voice and replaced with a brusqueness he's not sure he's heard from Peter before, at least never directed at him. "So I guess I'll just have to make as much use of you as I can manage from this position in the pack."

He knows better than to pull away when Peter grabs his wrist too tightly and pulls him toward the bedroom.

* * *

Derek still can't believe it worked. The burst of familial loyalty that came out of Isaac today, something he never really expected to hear from any of his betas, was enough of a satisfying surprise. He didn't dare to consider that the luck would hold and the weak hope that this pack might actually form into some kind of family would prove more than enough to add so much exactness to the memory control.

But it did. It does.

And now we can start to help Stiles.

He drops Isaac at his foster parents'. Isaac needs to show face there for a while and grab a change of clothes before coming over later to help Derek explain everything to Stiles. Derek needs to recharge before he tries the memory transfer with Stiles. He doesn't want to risk being anything less than top shape when they start this. They'll start slowly tonight, just one memory, maybe two.

Derek's still trying to decide which one to pick. Half of the times he's protected Stiles, it's been against someone who's now a packmate—Peter at the hospital, Isaac in the jail, Jackson as the kanima—and it's not going to help anything if the memory just leaves Stiles more confused than at the start. In the end, he may decide to share a memory Stiles isn't directly involved in. That would take a level of confusion off anyway, not making him see himself in a capacity he doesn't remember, and it gives Derek more moments to choose from. He could even show Stiles memories of protecting the other betas from the Alpha Pack. That might the most relatable, meaningful option to start off with.

He's so lost in thought that it takes him longer than it should to realize no one's in the den when he walks into the apartment. In the next instant, he takes in the sounds coming from Peter's room—the sounds of muffled whimpers and groans of pleasure—that make Derek so sick to his stomach the only thing that could possibly quell the bile rising in his throat is the immeasurable rage that floods his senses.

* * *

He doesn't remember bursting in here, though the door's off its hinges. He doesn't remember shifting to beta form. He doesn't remember pulling Peter away from Stiles and pinning him to the wall, claws planted deep into his uncle's chest. Nor does he remember the several blows he seems to already have landed to Peter's face.

"Please, Derek, please, it was my fault," Stiles whimpers, and it had to be his voice that brought Derek back to awareness. He's naked and trembling, cowering at Derek's feet as he sobs, "He was trying to help me, Derek. I begged him to help me. I was weak, Derek. I'm sorry. So sorry. It's my fault, Derek. He kept it from you to protect me. I shouldn't have let him take the risk , Derek. I shouldn't have put myself between my Alpha and Second. I know better, Derek. I know my place. I'm sorry, Derek. I should've offered to you both equally. Please, Derek, stop, take what you have to from me, but Peter didn't—"

"What the fuck did you do?" Derek demands of Peter, trying and failing to tune out the onslaught of apologies and offers Stiles is making to try and appease Derek's wrath. "What did you do to make him—"

"I didn't have to do anything, Derek," Peter replies with a grin. "That's the beauty of it."

"You fucking sociopath, sorry excuse for a—"

"All I did was allow him to act as he was trained to," Peter continues, voice smooth and controlled as he gloats, "and he loved me for it, Derek. He felt more at peace and at home on his knees and in my bed than he's been any time he's with you."

"You shut the fuck up!" Derek commands with a blow to Peter's jaw that has Stiles sobbing out apologies and begging for mercy with renewed fervor.

Peter just chuckles. "Oh, Derek, all your little plans to get him back, your fruitless attempts to fix him, they aren't worth shit, and you know it. You really think you can fix that pathetic, broken thing that's quaking at your feet? Look at him."

"So I'm supposed to take advantage of him because he thinks this is normal? I'm supposed to let him think that he exists purely to serve me and fuck me and—"

" _Exactly_ ," Peter replies as though it's the obvious conclusion. "We both know he needs an Alpha who can really handle him, one who's Alpha enough to play to his instincts and not be blinded by the weakness of human sentimentality. You don't deserve a beta like him."

Peter shifts, shoving Derek back with a growl. "And when I take him into my pack, he'll thank me for it; he'll be more happy and content to serve me than he could ever be with you, stuck trying to mimic the boy you lost because you're not even Alpha enough to defend your own territory."

There's venom in Peter's words and treachery in his eyes. No remorse, no regrets, just the fruition of a plan Peter's been waiting to act on; he's as desperate as ever to gain the supremacy of being an Alpha at any price—lives, sanity, whatever it takes—and Derek should've known better than to think anything was beneath this shell of a man masquerading as human.

None of the others would ever be convinced to desert and swear allegiance to Peter to start a new pack; they know exactly what the alpha power does to him. Stiles though, Stiles is the perfect candidate—well-trained, easily manipulated, and blindly loyal once he's been claimed—and then Peter would have the power that comes with the unyielding devotion of a beta to catapult him back to an Alpha position.

 _Well, you can't have him, you sick fuck. Over my dead body._

* * *

There you go guys! I know you fucking hate Peter because of what he has done to Stiles baby but it will be resolved! Thank you for all the support this story has been getting and my other story (Stiles is Derek's Only). Keep up the good work!

Kik: Thewarriorcatchick2

 ** _Stay a sourwolf ~AlphaHook_**


	8. Chapter 7

Derek's rage allows his instincts lead the fight for him. His vision reds out as he and Peter fly at each other, fangs and claws bared. He doesn't resurface until Peter's on his knees in the destroyed den with Derek's claws at his throat.

"What are you waiting for?" Peter demands, voice garbled from the blood dripping into his mouth. "Do it, Derek. Kill the only family you have left," he goads. "Kill me if it makes you feel better. We both know it's only a matter of time before someone takes this pack from you. You were never meant to be Alpha. You can't handle it. You can't protect them. You'll get them killed just like your last pack. But, come on, slash the throat of your dear old uncle if it makes you feel like less of a failure."

Derek hesitates, just for a moment, and Peter seizes the advantage. He goes for the existing gash in Derek's side, claws plunging so deeply Derek feels when they puncture the lung. He stumbles under Peter's renewed onslaught, gasping for breath as the wound tries to heal. Peter cackles in triumph as he lands enough blows to send Derek to the floor. He lashes out desperately as Peter lunges for his throat.

* * *

The first thing Derek becomes aware of is the uncomfortable pressure of hands against the wound on his side.

 _Peter._

He growls and clambers to his feet as quickly as he can, ready to continue the fight. He advances automatically on the body that retreats from him, but stops as soon as he recognizes that it's Stiles, not Peter ,who's running from him, black tendrils throbbing up his pale arms where he'd been pulling pain from his Alpha.

His eyes sweep the room for the threat of Peter, and it takes only a moment to see that Derek's final desperate jab at his uncle had found a home in Peter's heart, the wound of an Alpha healing slowly enough to make it a death blow. He pulls his gaze away from the carnage and back to Stiles who's cowering in the corner, babbling incoherent apologies and trying to curl into as small a target as possible as sobs wrack his body.

The sound of sirens spurs Derek into action. He wraps Stiles in the bloodstained blanket lying on the overturned sofa. The distraught beta convulses in terror at Derek's touch.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Stiles," Derek promises over and over. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Stiles doesn't seem to have enough presence of mind to follow him, so Derek scoops him up in his arms, ignoring the way it pulls at his wounds. They disappear down the fire escape as the deputies burst in the front door.

* * *

"Hey Scott," Isaac greets as he answers the phone.

"Where are you? Are Derek and Stiles with you?" Scott demands, the panic in his voice making Isaac sick with fear.

"No, Derek dropped me off. I was going over there later. What—"

"Peter's dead," Scott replies. "The sheriff's losing his mind, dude. Some of the neighbors called the cops and reported a disturbance. They busted in there and Peter's _ripped the fuck apart_. They're saying it's an animal attack, but we know better than that. There's no sign of Derek or Stiles."

"Fuck, shit, what—you think it's the last few of the Alpha pack? What the hell do we even—" a beep in his ear signals another call coming in. Relief washes through him when he sees Derek's name on the ID. "Hold on, Derek's calling me now. Give me a sec."

He switches lines.

"Derek, where are you? Do you have Stiles? Scott called he said Peter's—"

"Peter's dead," Derek finishes for him, voice completely calm and detached. "Stiles is with me. I need you to come to the Sitlinskis'."

"Are the alphas back? What do we need to—"

"No. There's no more threat to the pack. We're safe. I need you to come to the Stilinskis'."

"No more threat? Did you—"

"Isaac, _please_ ," Derek interrupts, the first sign of a break in his calm, and it honestly scares Isaac more than the previous coldness. "Just get here."

"Yeah, of course, I'm coming. I'm on my way now. I'll be there as fast as I can."

* * *

He takes Cindy's car without asking and calls Scott back as he barrels toward the Stilinski's, driving as fast as he can manage without drawing too much attention.

"Isaac, what the hell? You can't just hang up on me like that! What the fuck is—"

"Derek's okay—I think. He knows Peter's dead. He says the threat to the pack's been taken care of."

"And Stiles?"

"Stiles is with him. Call the Sheriff and Jackson and let them know Derek and Stiles are alive; I'll call you when I know more."

"Isaac, wait—"

He disconnects the call, tossing his phone into the vacant passenger seat. He's trying to process what the hell could be going on, but the possibilities are endless. Maybe he should tell Scott and Jackson meet them at the house. Something's attacked the pack. They should all be together, right? He reaches for the phone to call Scott back, but hesitates before he presses send. Derek says the threat's gone; they're not in danger, and he didn't ask for Isaac to bring any backup. It's also not lost on him that of all the betas Derek called Isaac.

 _So is it Stiles? You need me to help you with Stiles? If this thing killed Peter, how much worse is Stiles? Or did you protect him more than Peter and that's why Peter's dead? God, Derek what the fuck happened? What the hell's going on? Why did you call me and not the whole pack?_

He continues to run through the hundreds of horrible scenarios that may have put that tone in Derek's voice; he may not be able to guess the details, but one thing's for sure: even if the threat is gone, Derek still thinks something is terribly, terribly wrong, and he' trying to keep himself together. He presses harder on the gas pedal and prays whatever's waiting for him at the Stilinskis' is something he can handle.

* * *

"Derek?!" Isaac calls when he bursts in the front door, voice on the edge of panic.

"Here," Derek replies limping to meet him.

His broken leg healed at an angle. He'll have to tend to it later. There are more important things right now.

"I need you to go take care of Stiles," he tells Isaac.

Isaac stands frozen in the foyer, gaping at Derek in horror. Derek knows how he must look, covered with blood—some his, some Peter's—his wounds still healing, swaying slightly where he stands. He still hasn't figured out if the vertigo is from blood loss or a concussion that's still on the mend.

"Holy fuck, Derek, what happened to you?"

"I'll heal," Derek replies dismissively. "I need you to go take care of Stiles."

"Where is he? How bad is he?" Isaac asks, clearly terrified of the answer if Derek's this bad.

"Physically he's fine."

"Well, thank God for that. What the hell was it? Did you—"

"It was Peter."

"It was _Peter_!?" Isaac repeats. "The threat? The thing that apparently sliced you to ribbons was _Peter_?!"

"Yes. I need you to go take care of Stiles."

 _Fuck the rest of it. Go check on him. I can't. He's so damn scared Isaac. I scared him literally out of his mind. He was trying to apologize or beg for mercy or something but it wasn't even coming out in fucking English. He's just quaking and whimpering and goddammit I can't help him. He watched me kill Peter. I fucking killed another beta in front of him. He doesn't even understand why. This is so fucked up. I fucked everything up. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?_

Tears of anger and frustration and guilt well in Derek's eyes as he sinks to the floor, cradling his head in his hands as the dizziness washes over him again. Isaac drops to the floor next to him, hands on Derek's shoulders to steady him.

"I'll check on him," Isaac promises. "I know he's scared, but I'll talk to him. It'll be okay. You didn't fuck everything up, Derek. Don't say that."

At Isaac's words he realizes his pathetic rambling wasn't just in his head. He doesn't even have the energy to be embarrassed about it.

"I'm sure you didn't have a choice," Isaac continues. "I mean look at you, Peter was clearly out for blood. You were just defending yourself. Don't feel guilty you killed him. You—"

"I _don't_ feel guilt about that," Derek replies, coldness in his voice revealing just how true the words are. "I would cut that son of a bitch down again and not _blink_ , you understand me?"

 _I wanted to believe the resurrected incarnation of him was different. I wanted to believe he wasn't the soulless husk of a man who murdered Laura. I was wrong. He never changed. He hasn't really been Peter since the day of the fire._

"Okay," Isaac replies warily. "You weren't just defending yourself, but you're not exactly the type to kill Peter just for being a smartass. So then what the fuck happened?"

"I found them in Peter's bedroom when I got home," Derek replies, disgustedly. "Peter was—"

"Peter's _bedroom_?"

Derek nods miserably, closing his eyes against the memory.

"God, Isaac the sounds coming out of that room," Derek lament s, bile rising in his throat. "I lost it. I don't remember going in there, but once I had him away from Stiles he was going on and on about being Alpha enough to leave Stiles as he is, to use Stiles like the gift he is. He was planning to use Stiles' allegiance to get himself back to Alpha. This entire time Peter's been—" Derek closes his eyes and can't finish the sentence. "Jesus Christ, Isaac. How did I not know? How could I have trusted Stiles to him? Because I was too damn naïve to think that Peter would take _full_ advantage of the whole fucked up situation? Because I didn't like having to deal with Stiles while he was so damaged? I didn't want to take time to control my temper and fucking _talk_ to Stiles and figure out what he needed so he had to turn to Peter! He seemed happy enough to stay with Peter so I ran away to Deaton's to avoid dealing with it. I was fucking _glad_ Peter was there to help. I walked out the door every day and left a broken, traumatized teenager at the mercy of a sadistic, sociopathic son of a bitch and _never thought twice_!"

Isaac doesn't reply, just stares at Derek looking nauseated as the sickening truth sinks in.

When Derek speaks again, the anger's gone, and he knows he sounds wrecked but he can't be bothered to care as long as it gets Isaac upstairs to help Stiles, "So, please, just go take care of Stiles. He's completely petrified, and me being in the room just makes it worse. I just—how the fuck do I even start explaining or apologizing or—fuck, Isaac what are we going to do? I don't know how to even start making this better."

"I'd say mauling the bastard that did it was a step in the right direction," Isaac replies.

"He doesn't even understand _why_ I did it. He thinks the whole thing was his fault—which is another fucking problem we have to—"

"Hey," Isaac interrupts. "Look at me." Derek obliges. "You did what a good Alpha should, Derek. You got him away from Peter. You helped him. You protected him. He's scared and confused, but he's safe. We'll take the time to make sure he understands," Isaac promises. "We'll get him calmed down. We'll try to explain it. You can give him memories to help him understand what Peter was really like. It'll be okay. We'll figure it out."

There's confidence in Isaac's voice, but the fear in his eyes betrays him. He's just as terrified as Derek that there may be no pulling Stiles back from this.

* * *

Stiles sits curled in a ball on the desk chair where the Alpha deposited him, shaking uncontrollably as he awaits his punishment, the severity of which he can't even begin to comprehend. Surely if Derek were just going to kill him too he wouldn't have taken the trouble of bringing Stiles here. He promised over and over as they left the apartment that he wasn't going to hurt Stiles, but Stiles can't think of any other punishment the Alpha could give.

 _Unless…_

This is the house that doesn't smell like pack. This is the place his human father lives. This is a place Derek could easily leave him.

 _Oh, please, Derek no. Not that, anything but that. Please, don't leave me here to fall to Omega. Beat me. Fuck me. Kill me. Just don't leave me here alone._

By the time the footsteps sound on the stairs, Stiles' fear of abandonment has completely dwarfed any fear of pain. He's waiting on his knees by the door when it opens.

 _See Derek. I can be a good beta. Whatever you want you can have. Whatever you do I will learn from. I can be a good beta._

But it's not Derek who comes through the door; it's Isaac.

* * *

As soon as he lays eyes on Stiles, Isaac knows without a doubt he'd have ripped Peter limb from limb himself if he'd been in that apartment. How can _anyone_ possibly look at the broken, defenseless boy kneeling in terror and see only a puppet to be used and toyed with? See only a means to gain power and control?

"Hey, Stiles, it's okay," he soothes, repressing his fury at Peter because Peter won't hurt anyone ever again.

 _We're torching the fucking corpse this time. We'll scatter the ashes across the whole damn State. They'll be nothing left to resurrect._

Isaac's anger and need to ensure Peter's _permanent_ demise can wait; Stiles is what matters now.

"I know you're scared, but it's gonna be okay," Isaac promises.

"What's he going to do with me, Isaac?" Stiles chokes out, tears streaming down his face.

"Don't cry, Stiles," Isaac pleads, crouching so their eyes are level. "Please, don't cry. He's not going to do anything. You're not getting punished. It wasn't your fault. He's not mad at you, Stiles, I swear to you. He sent me up to make sure you were okay. He doesn't want you to worry. He doesn't want you to be afraid. He just wants you to be okay."

 _All any of us want is for you to be okay; we're just trying to figure out how the fuck to get you there. Especially now._

It seems to be all Stiles can do to continue his shallow breathing and stave off another descent into panic. He needs something to _do_. He's clearly been up here too long stuck in his own head trying to understand what the fuck happened and what happens next.

"First things first; Let's get you cleaned up, okay?" Isaac suggests. _You still smell like Peter, and you're covered in Derek's blood for Chrissake._ "Shower and clothes. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Good, Stiles, that's good. Come on," Isaac says, standing and reaching a hand down to help Stiles to his feet.

Though Stiles initially flinches away, he eventually takes Isaac's hand. He keeps a death grip on it the whole way down the hall to the bathroom.

"I'm okay," Stiles says once Isaac gets the water turned on and makes sure there's soap and towels still here. "Derek was hurt; you should go help him."

He wants to argue that he should stay, but he also doesn't want to crowd Stiles if this is a polite dismissal. Plus he really should go check on Derek; the Alpha needs to know Stiles is stable—stable enough for the moment anyway—as much as he needs the physical wounds to heal.

"Call if you need anything, okay?" Isaac says finally. "I'll go find some clothes for you and leave them on the bed."

"Thank you, Isaac."

"You don't have to thank me, Stiles. We just want you to be okay. Whatever it takes to help you."

Stiles nods though Isaac knows he doesn't fully understand.

* * *

By the time Isaac comes back downstairs, most of the lacerations are healed up. The huge gash in his side is finally starting to close up, but it still hurts like a bitch.

"He's going to shower and get some clothes on," Isaac says.

"Thank you, Isaac," Derek says earnestly.

 _Thank you for answering a phone call like that and then hauling ass over here, for dealing with me while I lost my shit, for stepping in and helping him because I can't._

"Dude, however I can help," Isaac replies, shrugging off the gratitude. "This is going to be a pack effort." He glances at Derek's leg. "You want me to reset that for you? Or were you going to wait?"

"Might as well get it over with."

"On three then. One," he counts before skipping to, "three!"

"Ah, fuck," Derek hisses.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just gimme a sec." He draws a few shaky breaths before the pain lessens slightly, and he can focus on the conversation again. "Thanks."

"Sure. Anything else? How's your side? That one looked pretty deep."

"It's fine. It's healing."

Isaac doesn't look so convinced Derek's fine, but he doesn't say anything. Upstairs the shower turns off.

"I should get back up there," Isaac says. "You should call Scott and Jackson and the Sheriff. They're all probably worried sick. Get yourself cleaned up, too.

"I will. I only stopped bleeding about three minutes ago, Isaac. Give me a minutes."

"If you need anything—"

"I'm _fine._ Go look after Stiles."

* * *

Isaac knocks on the door this time before going in the bedroom. "Hey, Stiles? Can I come in?"

"Yes."

Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in the pajama pants and t-shirt Isaac put out. He's still trembling a little, but he's a lot calmer than he was when Isaac first saw him. Isaac takes a seat next to him on the bed.

"You're scared," Isaac says, "and you're confused. I want to help you understand so you won't be afraid, but I'm not going to make you talk about it if you don't want to. Not tonight."

There's a lengthy silence after Isaac's words. As he opens his mouth to suggest Stiles just try to get some sleep, and they'll talk in the morning, Stiles speaks.

"He killed Peter," he says quietly, tears forming in his eyes again. "If I'd known that was the consequence, I never would've let Peter take the risk."

"You _let_ him take the risk?"

Stiles nods miserably.

"You're going to have to explain that to me, Stiles. I don't understand."

Stiles draws a shaky breath, working up to the story. "I was so confused at how this pack works. I couldn't figure out what Derek wanted. I needed to feel useful; I was so scared Derek would make leave if I was just a burden to the pack, but I couldn't figure out what I was supposed to do to be less burdensome. Peter said he would help me. He gave me something simple that I could understand so that I could keep myself grounded while I tried to figure everything out. It worked, and everything was getting better and then—Peter told me Derek wouldn't like it, but I didn't think—Isaac, I didn't know he would—"

Stiles dissolves into sobs, and Isaac can't help turning to engulf him in a tight embrace. The rest of the muddled story is muffled into Isaac's shoulder as Stiles buries his face there. Isaac's burning inside with fury because not only was Stiles subjected to Peter's abuse, he clearly thinks Peter sacrificed himself for Stiles somehow; he thinks his abuser was protecting him. He think's Peter's death was his fault. It's so fucked up Isaac can't even begin to unravel it tonight. Stiles is in no state to absorb explanations right now anyway. All he can do is murmur assurances that it _wasn't_ Stiles fault over and over and pray the message cuts through the misdirected grief.

When Stiles finally cries himself out and starts to drift off to sleep, Isaac moves him under the covers, tucking him in like a child. Stiles hand catches his as he turns to walk away. Isaac turns back to see Stiles' eyes are wide open now, panic back on his face.

"Stiles? What's wrong?"

 _What isn't wrong?_

 _"Please_ don't leave me here," Stiles begs. "It's not pack territory. It's the human's, and I—"

"I'm sorry, Stiles. I wasn't thinking about that," Isaac replies.

 _I wasn't thinking about how you freaked here your first day back after the alphas. I wasn't thinking that this place isn't related to the pack at all in your mind. And you just admitted you turned to Peter because you were trying to be sure you were kept in the pack. You've probably been terrified all night that Derek was bringing you here to leave you._

It's another reminder that he'll never be able to predict all Stiles' fears, another reminder he's in _so_ far over his head with this.

"If you want me to stay, I'll stay."

"Derek—"

"He won't mind. He told me to look after you, remember? If you want me to stay, it's okay. It's not any different than us sharing the living room."

 _And God knows you're sure to have nightmares now._

"You're sure?"

"I _promise._ "

"You can have the bed," Stiles offers.

"I'll be fine on the floor, Stiles," Isaac says, grabbing the pillow discarded by the wall. "Just get some sleep. I'll be right here if you need me."

 _I'm not going anywhere._

* * *

Stiles loses count of the number of times he wakes from his nightmares. Isaac pulls him from the ones that leave him with Peter and Derek's growls echoing in his ears. Far worse are ones where he dreams of waking to find Isaac and Derek gone, the house empty, and no matter how he tries he can't get out of the house to try and find them. After glancing for what seems the millionth time to check that Isaac's there, Stiles climbs from the bed to lie next to him on the floor. This close, he'll wake if Isaac moves to leave. He doesn't know what he'd do to stop Isaac leaving, but at least he'll know it's happening.

Isaac stirs in his sleep.

"Stiles? What're you doing?"

"I keep dreaming you leave," Stiles replies, embarrassed he can't stop the pathetic whimper that escapes him; Isaac's already done so much to help. "I wanted to be sure I knew if you left."

"I'm right here," Isaac assures him, grabbing Stiles' hand and squeezing tightly. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to worry about that."

"I'm sorry, Isaac. I can't help it I don't mean to—"

"It's not your fault; it's okay. Come on; I've got an idea," Isaac says, standing and pulling Stiles to his feet as well. "We'll push the bed against the wall. I'll sleep on the inside. Then there's no way I leave without you knowing, okay?"

Stiles nods. _Why are you so good to me, Isaac?_

He drifts to sleep with one of Isaac's arms tight around his shoulder and Isaac's other hand clutched firmly in his own. Even though Stiles knows Derek could come and take Isaac away just as easily in this position as any other, it blankets Stiles with the illusion of security, and, for once, the nightmares subside.

* * *

I KNOW, I know you all have been edging on to have Peter get what he deserves and finally it gets to him! I love you all for the support its been amazing! I've been trying to write tons of chapters so when I go on vacation to Disney World I can have some content for you to read. Keep up the reviewing and favoring because that's what keeps this going!

Kik: Thewarriorcatchick2

I have a new forum on my profile if you wanted to join! Its about TW ships! Please come give it a shot! The code is on my profile!

 _ **Stay a sourwolf ~AlphaHook**_


	9. Chapter 8

Isaac's had to pee for like twenty fucking minutes but, God help him, he can't bring himself to move and jostle Stiles awake. Both because Stiles looks maybe the most relaxed Isaac's seen him since before he disappeared and because once this day starts it's probably going to be a never-ending stream of complicated.

When a mockingbird outside the window starts doing an annoying but also rather impressive imitation of a car alarm, Stiles does finally wake, and, ready or not, the day begins. Isaac feigns sleep, not entirely sure he wants Stiles to know he was totallycreeping on him as he slept. It takes every ounce of control he has not to smile when Stiles, who is clearly awake now, doesn't move away from Isaac but instead settles in closer, seemingly content to wait here until Isaac's ready to move.

If everything else wasn't so fucked up, this would actually be pretty awesome.

But everything else is fucked up, and they can't ignore it forever. So Isaac pretends to wake, yawning widely as he opens his eyes and stretches as much as is possible with two of them crammed in the twin bed.

"Damn bird," Isaac mutters. "Morning, Stiles," he adds.

"Morning."

"Okay, bathroom is a necessity," Isaac says crawling over Stiles. "Be right back, okay? I promise." When he opens the bedroom door, he's met with the heavenly smell of, "Pancakes?!"

"I was bored," Derek yells back from downstairs.

The sound of his voice is all it takes to put the tension back in the room.

Ah, fuck; here we go.

Stiles doesn't totally freak, but he visibly tenses. There's fear back in his eyes when they meet Isaac's.

"You don't have to see him yet if you don't want to," Isaac promises.

"You can take Stiles his if he doesn't want to come down," Derek calls. "That's fine."

"See?" Isaac says with a hopeful smile. "No pressure, Stiles. He just wants you to be all right, and, let's be honest here, pancakes make everything a little bit better."

Seriously? It is going to take a helluva lot more than some fucking pancakes to make this better. Just stop talking, Isaac.

"I'll be right back, okay? Promise," Isaac says again, disappearing down the hall to the bathroom.

By the time he's back, Stiles is standing uncertainly by the door as though he thinks he should go out but can't quite bring himself to cross the threshold.

"You really don't have to go down there if you don't want to," Isaac repeats.

"I should."

"You should do whatever you want to do. If it's too much to see Derek before I expla—"

"I want to go downstairs for pancakes," Stiles replies firmly, the fact that the sentence comes out all in word giving away that he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to inform Isaac.

"Okay then," Isaac agrees. "Two reminders before we go: one, you don't need to apologize to him because it wasn't your fault, two, he's not going to hurt you, I promise."

Stiles nods but doesn't believe it. He's is trembling again by the time they reach the bottom of the stairs even though he hasn't even laid eyes on Derek yet.

So help me, Sourwolf, if you get pissed at yourself or Peter when you see how scared he is and scare him even worse, I will strangle you myself.

But Derek puts up a good front. He's forcing a fairly genuine-looking smile and there are pancakes and he's got flour on his shirt and on his forehead. There's a clear message of I didn't know how to seem less threatening but pancakes seemed like a decent place to start. Is it working? in the small eyebrow raise he gives Isaac. It is working just a little. Honestly, it's also pretty damn adorable, not that Isaac would ever in a billion years call Derek Hale adorable to his face.

He can't resist a small tease, "Some big scary alpha you are."

"I like pancakes," Derek replies with a shrug. "Sue me."

"You okay back there, Stiles?" Isaac asks, because Stiles has now halted and seems to be glued to the spot in the entryway to the kitchen.

He hasn't descended entirely into panic, but his eyes are fixed on Derek, flinching just slightly with every move of the spatula. Derek's determinedly trying to keep it casual and pretend not to notice. Isaac takes a step or two back, moving so that he blocks Derek from Stiles' view. Stiles' eyes go to Isaac's face instead.

"You're safe," Isaac assures him. "I swear."

"I'm not going to hurt you, Stiles," Derek adds, voice adopting the same calm tone as Isaac's. "I know yesterday was—I mean—I know I scared you, but I'm not going to hurt you. You don't have to be afraid, okay?"

"Yes, Derek," Stiles replies automatically in a strained whisper.

"Look, we'll just go hang out at the table while Derek finishes pancakes," Isaac suggests. "We'll all get a little breakfast, and then we're going to talk so we can all get on the same page. Nothing to be worried about; nothing to be scared of. Just a conversation so we can help you understand."

Stiles nods, takes the hand Isaac offers, and follows him into the dining room.

 _Here we go._

* * *

Isaac does most of the talking as they try to figure out Stiles' perspective so they can reconcile both the lies Peter told and Stiles' alpha-training-induced misconceptions with the actual truth of the situation. Derek and Isaac share more than one look of guilt as Stiles describes when and why he turned to Peter in the first place.

 _How could I be such an idiot? I spent so much time focusing on getting the old Stiles back I didn't stop to think what this version of Stiles needed. That kind of transition, from the Alpha Pack's absolute control and terror approach to a pack with the barest of rules and structure, of course it was too much for him to process. And what did I do? I handed him some peanut butter and crackers and left. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He pulls his mind back from the tangent, stamping down the anger at himself before Stiles can pick up on it. Luckily Stiles is listening too intently to Isaac's words, seemingly determined to fucking memorize them if that's what it takes, to notice that most of Derek's energy is spent masking his fury and guilt. His eyes do flicker over to Derek occasionally, the fear Stiles is trying to keep in check showing through despite his efforts.

Isaac's been running a monologue of all the moments that showcase Peter as a manipulative, power-hungry, psychopath. There's more than enough in the words to explain why Derek was justified in killing Peter. On the whole, it seems to make sense to Stiles who understands pack loyalty and the power of an Alpha in cruel hands. In comparison, Derek does seem a much better option.

"Okay, so one last recap for me?" Isaac requests, a tactic he's been using all morning to make sure Stiles' comprehension of the explanation is actually the message they want him to get from it.

Stiles always looks to Derek—well, Derek's shoes—to give these summations, tense as though the wrong answer will bring down judgment. It's another moment when Derek has to be sure and rein in the frustration in favor of nodding encouragingly and smiling as genuinely as possible when Stiles repeats the idea they were hoping he'd glean from the stories.

"Peter took advantage of a packmate who was confused and afraid. In this pack, we help out packmates; we don't take advantage. So Peter was wrong. He also wanted to leave the pack, which was wrong. He wanted to convince me to leave too, which was taking advantage again, and so it was wrong. He wanted to be an Alpha, but the power is too much for him. He's too controlling and too willing to hurt innocent people to be trusted with that kind of power. If Derek hadn't stopped him, he would've hurt me and the pack and Derek and lots of other people too."

Yes, Stiles understands.

Objectively he understands.

"He still doesn't really get it," Isaac says wearily when Stiles excuses himself to go to the bathroom. " He's regurgitating what I tell him. It's all instinctual pack dynamics and rules to him. He sees it as your duty and role as the Alpha, not you doing the right thing as Derek, ya know? Maybe giving him memories will help."

"Hopefully."

Or what I'm planning is going to confuse him even more, and it'll be for nothing.

"You figure out which one to start with? That death-match the first time you killed Peter might be a little much, maybe you should try—"

"I already know which one I'm giving him."

"Óh."

I wish I didn't, but I do.

"Not the death-match though?"

"I'm not a total idiot."

"Just checking."

"Shut up."

Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, lying awake trying to wrack his brain for which memory could possibly begin to properly explain it to Stiles when not even Isaac—or anyone else for that matter—really understands it, this plan began to form. He doesn't like it. In fact, he fucking hates the idea with every goddamned fiber of his being. He's been hoping against hope all morning that Stiles would somehow understand enough through Isaac's explanations alone so that Derek could convince himself this wasn't really necessary.

But as Isaac said, Stiles doesn't understand. Not well enough. He understands enough that he could function in the pack, but not with Derek at any level beyond Alpha-beta dynamics. Derek didn't spend the past four months praying they'd find Stiles alive to give up any shot at really getting him back now. He's already made the mistake once of treating Stiles as though this version will magically disappear when he gets the memories to transfer, but he's not going to assume that anymore. He's facing the fact that maybe the Stiles he knew, the Stiles he grew to know so much better in those first few weeks of fighting the Alpha Pack, isn'tcoming back, and this, for better or worse, is Stiles now.

And if that's the case, I'm not going to lose out on him because he's scared of me. I'm going to explain it, and I'm going to do it right—what I hope is right anyway—whatever it takes. Because losing him once was enough.

"Dude, why do you look like you're going to throw up?" Isaac asks worriedly.

Because I just fucking might.

I don't want to do this. I really, really don't want to do this. I definitely planned to die a bloody and painful death before I willingly chose to do this.

But it's not about Derek and what Derek does or doesn't want to share. It's about Stiles and what Stiles needs Derek to share to understand most effectively and expediently that this kind of violence isn't something that Derek doles out just because he can excuse it on Alpha instinct. It's about letting Stiles see that this isn't just about the pack dynamics of alphas and betas. It's about making him understand that Derek is something besides an Alpha to be feared and obeyed. He's a friend or a brother or whatever Stiles wants him to be; this pack can be a family. It's about hoping that even through all this bullshit—even if Stiles never gets back the memories from before he was taken—Derek still has a chance to have whatever bit of Stiles is still left or can be rebuilt underneath all the trauma.

It scares him just how badly he needs that chance, however slim it might be. It scares him even more what he's willing to risk for a shot at getting that chance.

"Seriously," Isaac pushes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Derek replies. "I'm just—I'm fine."

* * *

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," Derek reminds Stiles.

"I don't want to be confused, Derek. Memories always work better than words."

So much better than words. It's so much easier if you can just get in and reprogram. Please, Derek. Because I can tell there must be something I don't understand yet that you want me to see, and I can't figure out what it is.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Derek."

"Okay," Derek concedes. "This isn't—this isn't going to be a memory of Peter," Derek continues. "You understand well enough why I'd attack Peter from my place as an Alpha. You understand why I could never have let him stay in the pack."

"Yes, Derek."

"This is to help you understand why I went farther than that, as me not just mindless instinct of the Alpha, okay?"

"Yes, Derek."

There's a twinge of pain as Derek's claw slices into his neck, he closes his eyes against the momentary pain in his temple as the memory settles. Stiles searches his mind for it. Focusing in so he can really examine it.

There's a pretty brunette woman lying in in her lingerie on the bed when Derek walks in. She grins lecherously in greeting.

"About time, Derek, I was starting to wonder if I was going to have to start this party all by myself."

"Are you kidding? Of course I was coming. This is the only thing keeping me sane these days. I swear I can't wait to get out of this town. I'm going to college on the fucking East Coast. I'm so sick of their bullshit rules and constantly talking about my duty to the damn family legacy. If someone tells me one more goddamned time to listen to what Laura tells me to do…"

"Pretty short leash, huh?" she asks with a knowing smile.

"You have no idea how right you are."

"So if that leash is so short, how do you sneak out so often?"

"Basement," Derek replies, shucking his clothes as he talks.

"Basement?"

"It's—okay basement's the wrong word at our house—it's like these huge, creepy rooms and tunnels and shit. You could seriously get lost down there."

"And I take it some of these tunnels lead out?"

Derek nods. "That's how I sneak out."

"Huh," she replies. "Interesting."

"Guess so," he replies with a dismissive shrug.

"Enough about your family," she says, spreading her legs wide. "This is one place you don't have to follow anyone's orders. Your wish is my command, Derek. You're in charge."

"God, I love you," he confesses as he joins her on the bed, "especially when you say shit like that."

"I know," she replies leaning up to kiss him.

The memory cuts then, and Stiles pulls his focus back to the present and to Derek. The memory's confusing enough, but the real bafflement comes when he takes in the broken look on his Alpha's face.

* * *

"Her name was Kate," Derek says quietly, not looking at either of them. "I was sixteen and an idiot. She found me at my most vulnerable and figured out what I was starved for so that she could use it to gain my trust, and I did trust her. I trusted hercompletely and blindly because she made me think that she cared, that she was helping me, and that everything she did was for me.

She used my trust as a weapon to get my entire pack, my family, she killed my entire family, Stiles. Burned them alive because she knew enough about the pack and the house and everything through what I'd told her. It fucking wrecked me. It's a guilt that is with me every single moment and it will stay every single moment for the rest of my fucked up life because there's nothing I can do to change it."

"Derek, I don't—what does—"

"When I realized what Peter was doing, what he planned to do, all I could think about was her," Derek continues through Stiles' words. If I stop I'm never getting through this. "What my trust let her do to my family and what that did to me—and that's what Peter wanted to do with you. He told you he cared; he offered to help you when you needed someone—I should've been there and I wasn't and I'm sorry for that—but Peter was there, and instead of really helping you, he used you. He wanted your devotion so that he could get you estranged enough from the rest of us to start a new pack and rival or take over this one.

I know that you don't entirely understand family yet—that's okay, you'll get there—but you've seen the other betas. You know Isaac. You can see that he's not scared all the time; he smiles and jokes and he's happy in this pack, you see that, right? You would want Isaac to stay that way?"

"Yes, Derek," Stiles replies earnestly.

"Peter wanted to take that away, what's worse he wanted to use you as a means to take that away. If Peter had gotten what he wanted, you would have watched him take Isaac—Scott and Jackson too—and either kill him outright or do the same unforgiveable things to him that the Alpha Pack did to you. He would have hurt Isaac. He'd have taken Isaac's memories so he wouldn't remember anything good and make him as scared and as confused as you feel all the time, and you would've known you were the first step in making it happen. You would have that guilt inside you every day and it would only ever get worse. And I know what that's like, I know exactly how that guilt tears you apart, because of what Kate used me to do."

I know you understand guilt to some extent. You always get upset when you think something's your fault. Please let this fucking story make some kind of sense.

"That's why I killed Peter, can you understand that? Because he wanted to hurt you as badly as she hurt me, and I couldn't stand the thought that he would've had you live the same way I do—pissed off and guilt-ridden and so fucked up, Stiles—because he was so hungry for power that he didn't care who he wrecked to get there. People like Kate, like Peter, who are so selfish and manipulative and power-hungry that they use trust to turn others into unwilling weapons used against people they care about, people like them don't deserve the space they take up on this planet. There is no redemption for monsters that twisted."

"Does that make any sense?" Derek asks, "even a little?"

Cause that was really my best shot.

Stiles is still absorbing the words, and Derek can't tell yet if he comprehends.

Please God, let it make sense.

Tell me I didn't just confess that for no fucking reason. I know the situations are different, but, in my head, they're the same. Even if you can't understand family and pack the way I did, Peter still wanted to use you to take away anything good you'd ever had a chance to experience. If he'd done it—if he'd made you into anything as close to the wreck that I am—God, I can't even handle the thought of that, Stiles—I can't handle the thought of you being like this, like me. Even if we never get you back entirely to your old self, at least you'll never wake up every day feeling like this.

I just need you to not hate me for killing him. I need you to understand why. I need you to get it and not think that I'm like him or worse.

He's spiraling into some deep and dark anxiety now that the confession is out in the open. If Stiles doesn't understand what he's trying to say, Derek's pretty sure he's just going to lose his goddamn mind. This was the most he could offer in the way of explaining and connecting and trying to salvage something with Stiles after he terrified him out of his mind yesterday. If this doesn't work, he doesn't know what the fuck else to do.

He can feel distress of it all singing in his veins, and, though it's not anger, he's still worried it's enough to set Stiles off and ruin any shot at the memory and words breaking through. He rises from his seat and moves toward the kitchen, trying to put enough distance between them to keep Stiles from reading the apprehension in his Alpha.

* * *

There's so much in Derek's words that Stiles mind reels as he tries to process what Derek is terrifyingly desperate to convey. Stiles looks to Isaac, hoping for some clue how to react, but Isaac's clearly flabbergasted as well, in fact, he's got tears welling up in his eyes as he looks over at Derek. Stiles can understand why on some level. The Alpha is humbled; he looks so broken that every instinct in Stiles screams for him to fix it, to help his Alpha.

And to fix it I have to understand.

So he replays Derek works, carefully examining them. He would have hurt Isaac Derek had said. He'd have taken Isaac's memories so he wouldn't remember anything good and make him as scared and as confused as you feel all the time, and you would've known you were the first step in making it happen.

The idea makes Stiles sick. To look over at Isaac—Isaac who's kind and patient and smiles and cooks with Stiles and wakes Stiles from nightmares and holds him like he matters without ever asking for anything to be given back—and think of him broken and cowering at Peter's feet instead of the way he is now seems wrong. Even if Peter were to gain the power and be owed Isaac's allegiance, Stiles wouldn't want things to be that way. He's still figuring out what it means to know what he wants, but he knows he wants Isaac, and he wants this Isaac.

And this Isaac still okay and happy and here because Derek stopped Peter.

Because Peter would have hurt the Pack. Peter would have hurt Isaac. Peter would have used Stiles as a way to get what he needed to hurt Isaac.

But Derek stopped Peter.

He looks again to his Alpha, takes in the sadness again and understands a little more.

More of Derek's monologue replays in Stiles' mind, That's why I killed Peter. He wanted to hurt you as badly as she hurt me, and I couldn't stand the thought that he would've had you live the same way I do—angry and guilt-ridden and so fucked up, Stiles and the words pair with Isaac's from days ago that's not anger he's use against you, Stiles. That's anger he'd use to protect you.

Anger he has because Kate hurt his pack. Anger that's always there now. Anger and violence not because he wants to keep hispower; anger because he wants to keep his pack.

Derek stopped Peter because no one stopped Kate.

This is what Stiles was missing when he was trying so hard to understand why Derek would let his happiness be so centered in his betas. This is why Derek is happier when Stiles doesn't seem afraid. He couldn't see that the reasons Derek has for having a pack are different from the reasons his previous alphas had for having a pack. They wanted a fighting force; Derek wants a family because he lost his own.

Stiles knows he doesn't understand all of it to the depth Derek wants. His understanding of family is limited, and he still doesn't understand why in hell Derek would do so much to protect Stiles who's done so little to contribute to the pack dynamic Derek seems to care so much about. There's something going on with Derek beyond the the rules and the instincts of an Alpha; he's not quite like the alphas Stiles has seen before, and he doesn't seem to want to be. Stiles wonders if maybe there's just something about Derek like there's something about Isaac. Something that has them helping Stiles without a good reason why or an assurance of reciprocation. It still doesn't entirely make sense, he still doesn't understand why

But he wants it to. He'll figure it out. Whatever it takes.

Derek rises to leave, walking back toward the kitchen, and Stiles panics for a moment because it seems like maybe Derek's giving up on Stiles being able to understand. He isn't sure how to explain what he thinks he understands, but he needs to say something. He needs to show the words did make some kind of sense, and he can keep working at it until he gets it all.

"Thank you, Derek," he says simply, as earnestly as he can, and when Derek turns back to look at him he tries to put as much in the gaze as he can, meeting Derek's eyes determinedly.

Look at me, Derek. I get it. I understand. I'm grateful, not afraid. I'm happy you stopped it. I'm happy you didn't let it happen, and I'm sorry no one was there to stop Kate from hurting you. I don't understand it all, but I understand enough I think. See that. Please see that.

* * *

"You're welcome," Derek replies, relief washing over him at the look on Stiles' face.

There's plenty of confusion and a little trepidation, but the mind-numbing fear seems to be gone. This wasn't a cure-all for Stiles' conditioning on how to interact with an Alpha. It's not going to erase what he saw Derek do. Nevertheless, it seems to have served its purpose as a giant leap in the right direction instead of the usual excruciating baby steps.

"Look, Stiles, I know that was the craziest bombardment of information I could've thrown at you, I just—I need you to get it. I need you to see why I did it. that it's not just because I'm an Alpha."

"I think I understand why, Derek," Stiles assures him, and for once it's not the automatic, eager-to-please reply. "Mostly."

Something as simple as an honest, conversational reply shouldn't make him this happy, but it does.

"Good," Derek replies with a small smile.

"And you can give me memories now, Derek. Memories are easier than words. I'll figure out the rest."

Yeah I bet memories are easier than words, especially if you're stuck with me as an Alpha. I was never really so great with words. Pretty sure that's the longest damn speech I've given anyone in my whole life.

"We'll take it slow, though, okay? Be sure you get rested up and healed between memories."

Stiles nods his understanding.

"They don't hurt much, Derek," he says so flippantly it breaks Derek's heart. "I heal faster than the others I think."

"All the same. We'll take it slow. You've had enough to deal with for a while."

Holy fucking shit, Isaac's mind repeats over and over. Holy fucking shit.

He didn't see whatever memory Derek gave Stiles. He's not sure he ever wants to. It wasn't hard to put together though. Kate and Derek were together—whatever the specific details—they were a thing.

And then that psycho, pyro, nut job burned his whole family alive. What the fuck?!

The knowledge changes absolutely everything. Everything Isaac thought he understood about Derek—his attitude toward hunters, his unyielding hatred of Scott and Allison being ScottandAllison, his rage, his trust issues, everything—must be driven by this. Since the age of sixteen, every single action spurred not by an anger at the world that he lost his family but by anger at himselfthat he brought about their deaths.

Holy fucking shit.

Isaac can barely begin to process it, much less understand how Derek's lived with it for upwards of six years.

God, Derek, how do you carry that every day? Why didn't you tell us? How do keep from losing your fucking mind trying to deal with that on your own?

"Isaac?" Derek says worriedly. "You—uh—okay?"

You're asking me if I'm okay? You who hate to talk about feelings or be vulnerable or do any of that gushy sharing and caring king of stuff , you Derek Sourwolf Hale just fucking put all that shit out there and talked about your emotional baggage and your hurt and hating yourself and you're the one asking if I'm okay?! I should be—I don't know—baking you cookies, hugging the shit out of you, and driving you to therapy. Jesus Christ.

But Derek's watching carefully for Isaac's reply, the apprehension on his face evident. Out loud he's asking if Isaac's okay, but his eyes are also asking if Isaac's okay with Derek. Isaac quiets his mind enough to keep his voice even as he replies.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just—processing."

I think I'm going to be processing that for like the next decade. What the hell do I even do with that? Are we keeping it between the three of us? Or are we telling the pack? Did Laura even know? How do I start convincing Derek to let go of some of that guilt? How badly must he want Stiles to be okay to jump to sharing something like that instead of trying the more obvious paths? I didn't think Derek cared that much about any of us yet.

It makes his head spin. He needs a distraction, so he stands, grabbing his empty plate and Stiles'.

"I can help," Stiles offers.

"Only if you want to."

Stiles follows him into the kitchen where Derek's already rinsing the pan. They make quick work of the clean-up between the three of them, talking little as they finish up, each one of them quietly trying to catalog the craziness of the last ten minutes in his head. It's Stiles of all people who breaks the silence.

"Derek?"

"Yeah?"

"The scratch is healed I think."

"We don't have to start back yet."

"I want to understand more, Derek."

"Okay then," Derek agrees, sitting his coffee on the counter and turning his full attention to Stiles, "but you decide what you want to see."

"Anything's fine, Derek."

"We've got time for everything. I'll make some suggestions later. Right now, I want to know what's most confusing to you? Or just what you want to understand the most?"

Stiles considers a moment or two.

"Can you show me family? If that's okay, Derek?"

"That's perfect, Stiles."

* * *

OMG I am soo soo so sorry I haven posted! I am preparing for my trip to Disney and I´ve been writing and stuff. Please forgive me I am trying my hardest!

 ** _Stay a sourwolf ~AlphaHook_**


	10. Chapter 9

When the first memory didn't spark any others, Derek didn't let himself get too worried. When the second and third didn't either, he counted his blessings and convinced himself they just needed more time. Now, it's nearly sunset and still there's no sign the amnesia will wear off any time soon.

He's officially worried.

Even without Stiles regaining any of his own memories, the ability for him to share Derek's still changes everything. Stiles is incredibly eager to get them and generally all smiles for a good ten minutes after they're shared. They spent the better part of the afternoon trying to explain family and share the pack dynamic. Derek hopes he's not overselling it by showing the highlight reel, but overall the pack really is pretty good these days. Jackson's personality will be the most confusing. Scott's going to have a hard time remembering that this Stiles isn't the same kid he's known half his life. Lydia and his father might be a different obstacle altogether. Regardless, after all Stiles has been through, it's not like the bar is very high anyway. He seems excited at the prospect of getting to be in a pack like this one. Overall, Stiles just seems happy, the happiest he's been in the week they've had him back.

 _Given that when he woke up this morning he was just a terrified ball of confusion and misery, I'm going to call it a good day._

He knows he thought too soon when he phone rings, and it's the sheriff. He steps out on the back porch to get out of earshot—well, more easily tuned out anyway—leaving Isaac and Stiles to their game of checkers.

"Sheriff?"

"How is he?"

"Better," Derek replies, "a lot better. We explained everything. I gave him a few memories. He's doing good."

"But it's not triggering any reversal of the amnesia?"

"Doesn't seem to be."

"I need to see him."

"Sheriff, we've talked about—"

"Derek, I don't care if I just have to swing by the house and creep in the window for five seconds; it's been a week. I walked into the apartment where he was supposed to be safely awaiting the return of his memory to find blood everywhere and a mangled corpse on the floor. I just—I need to _see_ he's okay."

Derek wants to refuse the request. It's been a good day—hell, a _great_ one compared to the clusterfuck he was expecting—and he doesn't want to push too hard. Irritatingly, the desperation in the sheriff's voice is wheedling through his resolve. Besides, the man has a point. He's no doubt been worried sick all week, scared to death yesterday, and now he's graciously bunking at the McCalls' because they needed the Stilinski house. Still, if Derek has to pick between Stiles' peace of mind or his father's it's no contest.

"I'll talk to him," Derek offers. "I'll see where he thinks he's at with it. If he thinks he can control the shift with us here, I'll call you back. If not, you'll get a picture message from Isaac, and that's the best I can do. Stiles comes first."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I didn't mean— _I know you're his Dad, but you're not the only one trying to take care of him—_ I'll let you know, okay? We'll see."

He disconnects the call and runs a hand down his face, collecting his frustration and calming completely before he walks back in.

"What's up?" Isaac. "Everything okay?"

"The sheriff's just—having a hard time with it."

"Understandable."

"Stiles, I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to be _entirely_ honest. There's no wrong answer. I just want to know the truth, okay?"

"Yes."

Derek can feel a smile playing at his lips in response to the triumph that Stiles' reply doesn't have Derek's name tacked onto it like a title. It's another seemingly small but nevertheless significant change of the day that Stiles _believes_ Derek now when Derek says he doesn't have to do it; he _believes_ Derek doesn't care. He might not _understand_ it completely, but he trusts Derek not to lie to lay traps.

"If your dad—if the sheriff—came here, could you control the shift?" Derek wonders. "Isaac and I would stay; it wouldn't be you alone with him, but it's okay if that's still too much."

As frustrated as he is that the Sheriff's rocking the boat with this, Derek is quietly hoping Stiles isn't opposed to the idea. He's held the shift in front of him once before—until Scott left at least. Derek knows the sheriff and Stiles have always been close. It's been just as hard on him to keep his distance as it's been for the pack to deal with Stiles directly—maybe harder. If Stiles can handle this, it just might be good for both of them, especially since they've been trying to teach Stiles about family all day.

"I can control the shift in front of humans when I need to," Stiles replies.

"Without hurting yourself?"

"I think so. I can keep something close by just in case and—"

"No," Derek says firmly. "If you shift, Isaac and I will stop you. I don't want you controlling the shift with pain anymore."

"Yes, Derek," Stiles replies, title slipping back in now he's been given a direction.

 _Shit, little less authority there next time. Should probably work on that._

"We'll teach you to control it without the pain as soon as we get a chance," Derek promises, "but there's not time for that right now. Just try to keep it at bay, and trust me and Isaac to get you back in control if you shift. You trust us to do that?"

"Yes."

"Good. He wants to come here tonight. He wants to see you—to see that you're okay. Would that make you uncomfortable?"

"No."

"You understand he's not a threat even though he's not pack?"

"Yes. I understand." Stiles hesitates a moment before adding, "I didn't hurt him the first time."

"I know, I just wanted to be sure. If it stresses you out, we can wait."

"I can do it, Derek," Stiles says determinedly.

"You sure you _want_ to though?"

"He's my family," Stiles replies. "Right?"

"Damn," Isaac replies. "Can't argue with that, can you, Derek? Point to Stiles for that one."

Stiles looks confusedly at Isaac, unsure what the statement means, but he smiles along with Derek and Isaac anyway.

"I'll let your dad know it's okay. He'll call before he comes up to the door so he doesn't catch any of us off guard."

 _Please don't let this fuck up the day. I'd really like for just one to finally go out on a good note._

* * *

"My neck is healed again, Derek," Stiles says tentatively.

He always tells Derek, but he can't quite bring himself to _ask_ for the memories. He knows it tires Derek. He doesn't want his Alpha at any disadvantage, not on his account, and _especially_ not Derek. Derek's going to be a good Alpha to Stiles. Derek protects his pack.

 _But if you can spare the energy, I do want more memories. Please, Derek. As many as you'll share._

So far it's been mostly images of Derek when he was younger, enjoying time with his family before they died. It makes Stiles sad to know they're gone now. It makes him hope this pack will be that nice, for him and for Derek. He's seen glimpses of moments with the current betas too—eating together at Scott's house, training in the woods somewhere—and he can't quite believe he's lucky enough to be taken in by a pack like this. He's trying to keep his optimism in check, bad things will always happen, but he can't entirely suppress the hope that's building inside of him.

"Got something in mind?" Derek asks, easily pleased again that Stiles wants more memories, yet another reason Stiles will keep at it. "What d'you want to see?"

He's seen memories of Derek's family, seen Derek's father, but now he's about to meet his own and he has nothing but the description in the scrapbook Lydia made, the picture that accompanied it, and the photos he's only glanced at that are scattered around this house.

"Maybe my dad?" he asks hopefully, but when Derek's face falls he backtracks quickly. "Or anything, Derek." _More pack memories are good. Anything's good. I just like having good memories in my head. Please don't say no because I picked the wrong one._ "It was just an idea. I thought tactically it might—"

"The request is fine, Stiles," Derek replies, "but it might be a little disappointing. I don't have many memories of you with your father. He didn't even know you were running around with werewolves until after you disappeared."

"Oh."

"Here, I've got this one," Derek offers. "It's not much, but it's something."

 _A lacrosse game has ended, and Derek's watching from a distance as the crowd disperses. He finds Isaac, then two people Stiles doesn't recognize, next Scott, and then Stiles. Stiles' father comes straight for him, patting him on the back as Stiles moves to follow his teammates off the field._

 _"Proud of you, kiddo," his father says. "You did good."_

 _"I didn't even play," Stiles replies irritably._

 _"Well, you warmed that bench like a pro."_

 _"Gee, thanks," Stiles replies with a roll of his eyes._

 _"See you at home?"_

" _Yeah, sure. Bye, Dad."_

Derek's right, it's not much, but it's enough to see the kind, familial bond. It calms his nerves enough that he's certain he can keep from hurting the man when he gets here.

"Like I said, it's not much," Derek repeats apologetically.

"It's good, Derek. It helps. Thank you."

* * *

Stiles tenses when the headlights swoop through the window of the den as the sheriff's truck pulls in the drive.

"Nervous?" Isaac asks.

Stiles nods. "I won't hurt him though. I'm okay."

"I'm sure you'll do fine."

They follow Derek to the door when the Sheriff knocks. Derek opens the door slowly, and the Sheriff walks in smiling uncertainly. The relief of seeing Stiles safe and in one piece is evident his face, but he doesn't relax completely. He's got a big brown bag of what smells like burgers and fries in one hand and the other raised in a show of peace.

"Hey, Stiles," he greets with a smile.

"Hello."

"I—uh—I know this doesn't mean anything to you really, but I brought—"

"Curly fries," Stiles finishes for him, "from Caroline's."

"What did you say?" the sheriff asks, dumbfounded.

"Curly fries from Caroline's Diner," Stiles repeats, like he's reciting something off a paper, "and burgers, but you're supposed to be eating veggie burgers and carrots and—" Stiles breaks off the sentence and looks to Isaac and Derek. "How do I know that? I didn't—but then—it just—I don't know how I know that."

"Stiles, you remembered something!" Isaac exclaims, practically tackling Stiles with a hug before he thinks better of it, but Stiles doesn't flinch away; he hugs back.

"Dude, after getting memories all day and it never triggering any of your own, I was kind of scared it was never going to work," Isaac admits as he breaks the embrace.

 _It was scaring the shit out of us, dude, but it's okay now. You remembered something! Which means it'll happen again eventually. Which means we might just get you back after all._

"Do you remember anything else?" Derek asks.

Stiles pauses a moment before looking back at the sheriff and saying, "We go to Caroline's all the time—ever since I was young—and they know our names. I get chocolate milk."

"Yeah," the sheriff confirms, tears shining in his eyes as he beams at his son. "Yeah, Stiles, you're right."

"I don't remember anything specific," Stiles continues, "just being there."

"That's great though," Isaac says encouragingly. "That means more might come back. Maybe it'll take some time, but some more might come back."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, looking uncertainly from Isaac to Derek, "but I don't know how to make it happen again. I don't know if I can."

"That's okay," Derek assures him. "Don't worry, Stiles. Whatever you get back we'll be happy for and whatever you don't we'll help you fill in the gaps, okay?"

"Yes."

"So—uh—you kids hungry?" the sheriff asks. "I don't have to stay and eat with you, but I wanted to bring something."

"Good thing you did," Isaac says. "Since apparently curly fries were the magic memory."

"Well, I did read that olfactory memory is supposed to be fairly strong," the sheriff replies.

 _Yup, that's where Stiles gets it. Of course you've been researching memory loss and recovery, probably incessantly. Also, if this is what it takes, we're going to have him sniffing the whole damn town tomorrow._

"If it was going to be anything, curly fries were a good bet," the sheriff continues. "It used to be practically a whole food group for you, kiddo."

Stiles doesn't seem sure if the comment is directed at him or not or how to reply if it is, so he glances back to Isaac who responds for him.

"Good call, then, sheriff, and definitely thanks for the food."

"No problem." He offers the bag to Derek who's closest to him. "You boys should go eat before it gets cold."

"Thanks."

"Glad you're doing better, Stiles," the sheriff adds with a strained smile, giving Stiles one more lingering look before he turns to walk out the door.

"Derek," Stiles blurts just before the door shuts.

"Yeah?"

"I could keep the control," Stiles promises, "if you want him to stay."

The sheriff's paused on the porch outside, and he looks so fucking hopeful at the prospect of getting to stay a while with Stiles that it makes Isaac want to bawl like a two-year-old.

"That's your choice, Stiles," Derek replies. "I don't mind either way. Do _you_ want him to stay?"

Stiles pauses a moment, searching Derek's face to see if there's a right and wrong answer to the question. Finally, he nods.

"Yes, Derek. If that's okay."

"Fine by me," Derek replies, opening the door wide again. "Sheriff?"

"Yeah," the sheriff relies eagerly. "Yeah, I'd love to. Thank you, Stiles."

Stiles smiles in reply. It's too forced, but the intent is still there.

 _He's getting there. We've got a long way to go, but he's getting there._

* * *

They eat in the den while they catch the last half of the ball game. The sheriff— _Dad, you call him Dad—_ seems thrilled to be here. He keeps glancing over at Stiles, watching him. Stiles tries not to let it bother him, focusing on ignoring the gaze by watching the game and keeping his pulse calm.

"So how're the fries?" Isaac asks, breaking the silence that's fallen. "Better than pancakes?"

"No," Stiles replies. He looks over to the sheriff— _Dad—_ and adds politely, "but they're very good. Thank you."

It's odd to show a human such courtesy, but he's seen in the memories that they aren't viewed the same way in this pack as with the alphas. There were humans in Derek's memories of family and pack. There are positive memories of the human girl, Lydia. Stiles himself was human before the alphas turned him. They're given the same respect as werewolves it seems, though there's still some level of distinction between pack bonds and the friendship—family?—with the humans. He still needs more memories or explanations before he fully understands it, but it's clearer than it was.

"You're very welcome, Stiles," his father replies. "I'm glad to do it."

Silence falls in the room again. The sheriff seems eager to keep talking, but he doesn't seem to know what to say. Stiles surely doesn't know what to say, so he focuses on the fries, which _are_ insanely delicious; they're _almost_ as good as pancakes, except, pancakes Stiles can cook and make Derek smile. Pancakes make Derek and Isaac happy; pancakes still win, for now.

 _I bet I could figure out how to make these for us, too. I wonder if they'd like that._

"How much do you know about me?" the sheriff asks finally, pulling Stiles from his hypothetical fry-cooking plans. "You know who I am, don't you?"

Stiles nods. "My dad," he replies, the title foreign on his tongue. "John Stilinski. Aged 40. Sheriff of Beacon Hills. Single father. We were very close before I disappeared," he recites a summation of the facts Lydia wrote in the scrapbook. "You come to lacrosse games even when I sit on the bench," he adds, thinking to Derek's memory, "and say you're proud of me."

"Yeah," the sheriff confirms, "That's right."

There are tears welling up in his eyes again, but Stiles doesn't really understand why; maybe because he's not like the boy in Derek's memory?

 _I don't know how to be him yet. I'm still learning._

His father clears his throat and when he speaks again the sadness is mostly gone from his voice. "You didn't always ride the bench though," he says. "You won the state championship game. Has Derek had a chance to show you that?"

"No."

"I can't," Derek replies apologetically. "I wasn't there until after. I don't have a memory of it."

"Oh," the sheriff replies, looking disappointed. "Well, it was a helluva game. You were fantastic, Stiles." His face brightens as he wonders, "You can take memories, can't you? Could you take it from me and then—

"Derek, please, I don't need the memory. I don't need it. It's okay," Stiles counters hurriedly. "Please."

 _Don't hurt the human. Please don't hurt him, not for me. Don't take his memories because of me. Please, please, please._

Unbidden memories flood to the surface of his mind, terrible things he'd forgotten or blocked.

 _He can feel the Alpha's claw sink deep into his still-human flesh and the anguish in his mind as the Alpha's control shreds through his memories. He's sure it will kill him this time, sure he can't take anymore; he's thought—hoped?—that so many times now yet still they keep hacking away at him, allowing him to recover momentarily from the pain to feel a little more empty, a little more hollow, a little more confused every time, aching mentally and physically, healing just enough for the next round of the torturous process._

" _Not such a brazen little smartass, now, are we, Stiles? You hear the pathetic little sounds you're making? You'll be begging us to stop soon."_

 _"Fuck off," he replies angrily through teeth gritted against the pain._

" _Now, now, is that any way to speak to your new Alphas?"_

 _"You're not my alphas. You will never be my alphas. Over. My. Dead. Body."_

 _"That can be arranged," the alpha taunts._

 _He plunges a claw mercilessly down into Stiles neck. As the pain sears through his mind, hacking away at precious memories, he prays to black out again, but this alpha seems to know Stiles' limits. It pulls away just as he's reaching the edge of the blessed blackness. The pain doesn't lessen, just throbs as he's released and crumples to the floor, cradling his head in his hands._

 _"You're not leaving here, Stiles. No one is going to save you from this. Not Derek, not any of those other pathetic mongrels he's trying to make a pack of, no one," the alpha asserts, accentuating the taunts with blows far too fast for Stiles to dodge. "It's just you and us, and we're going to keep at this until you're a good little beta like you should be." Stiles feels a rib break under the force of the next kick. "Or until it kills you. Whichever comes first. You understand?"_

 _He wants to beg for mercy. He wants to shriek in pain and not hold back. He wants to cry out desperately for help until Scott or Derek or Dad prove these monsters wrong and come to save him. Instead, he bites back the weakness and braces for the coming blows._

He returns to the present without warning. Someone's shaking his shoulders, and he's lashing out before he can stop the impulse, the anger and fear from the memory still surging through him. There's a loud crash as he sends his attacker flying back into the coffee table which collapses under the weight. Too late he realizes it's Isaac, not an attacker. He backs away from Isaac, from Derek who's standing between Stiles and his breakable, human father, whimpering low in his throat as he takes in what he's done.

"Isaac, I didn't mean to; I don't know what happened. I didn't mean to, Derek, please, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Derek soothes, still braced protectively in front of the sheriff. "You had a flashback. It's okay."

"Help me shift back, Derek, please."

"Try on your own," Isaac says.

"Isaac, now's not the time for—"

"Let him try," Isaac insists, cutting off Derek's protest. "He's already got more presence of mind than he usually does. He's retreating not attacking. Come on, Stiles," he urges. "Breathe deep, and focus on something that matters to you. Just try. If it doesn't work, Derek'll help you."

He sucks in a shaky breathe or two, trying to slow his pulse.

 _Something that matters. Something that matters._

 _Isaac. Derek. Family. Isaac. Derek. Family. Isaac. Derek. Family._

He can feel himself shifting back slowly.

"Good, Stiles," Derek encourages. "That's it. That's perfect. Keep going."

 _Isaac. Derek. Family. Isaac. Derek. Family._

He feels the moment he's completely back to human form, the red tint in his vision fades. He closes his eyes gratefully as relief washes over him so completely that his knees buckle and he slides down the wall to the floor.

"Stiles?" Derek says, voice slightly alarmed.

"Stiles, are you okay?" Isaac asks as he moves toward him. "Are you—"

Stiles opens his eyes, smiling up at Isaac, voice on the verge of giddy laughter as he replies, "I did it."

Isaac grins down, offering Stiles a hand up. "Yeah, you did. You were fucking awesome!"

He looks to Derek who's smiling proudly, smiling because of _him_ , and the giddy laughter can't be held back anymore.

"I did it without pain," he says happily to Derek, though he knows he's stating the obvious. "I can control it without pain!"

"That was fantastic, Stiles," Derek compliments.

"We told you it would get better," Isaac reminds Stiles. "You're gonna get better, Stiles. See? A little bit at a time."

"Maybe I should go," the sheriff suggests quietly.

'"No, I can control it now. This control is better. It's more stable I can—" Stiles pauses, and then looks quickly to Derek, realizing he might've spoken out of turn. "Unless you want him to go, Derek," he adds quickly.

'"You're the one who makes the call, Stiles," Derek replies with a shrug. "Stay as long as you want, Sheriff."

* * *

Isaac's pretty exhausted so he more than understands why Stiles is dozing off where he sits, but Stiles is trying hard to stay awake as the night wears on. It's kind of adorable really. He's still radiating happiness, and it's a nice change to the constant tremors Isaac got too used to all week. Nevertheless, it's been a long day for everyone, and tomorrow's going to be more of the same; that flashback may have been a catalyst to something better, but it was still a reminder that getting back some of these memories isn't going to be a walk in the park.

"I think I'm about to crash," Isaac informs the room at large, testing the waters for Stiles' reaction and if he'll want Isaac with him again tonight.

"Are you leaving?" Stiles asks, eyes worried.

"Not unless you want me to. Why? You want me to crash in your room again?"

 _Say yes, because otherwise I'm going to be up half the night worrying about you anyway._

He looks from Isaac to Derek, clearly trying to decide if he's allowed to want this before admitting, "Only if you don't mind," he glances back to Derek to add, "and if it's okay."

"I don't mind," Isaac assures him. "Derek doesn't either, do you?"

"Nope."

The sheriff clearly has a thought or two about this arrangement, but he's keeping it to himself for the moment.

 _Good call, dude. He needs me, and I don't give a fuck what you think. Stiles doesn't either. You can take it up with Derek if you've got a problem._

"Why don't you two grab the double bed in the guest room," Derek suggests. "I'll take the twin for tonight, and we'll switch the beds tomorrow?"

"Sounds good," Isaac says. "Good with you, Stiles?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"We don't mind, Stiles," Derek reminds.

"Of course not," Isaac agrees.

 _We're still just excited you're having semi-normal conversations with us. A little rearranging of the furniture and sleeping arrangements is nothing._

* * *

"I'll walk you out," Derek offers once Stiles and Isaac disappear down the hall. "Tomorrow I'll talk to Stiles about you moving back in."

"You don't think it'll be too much stress on him?" the sheriff wonders, rising and following Derek to the door.

"If he can keep the shift from happening and we're careful to keep one of the pack here at all times, he should be fine, and you should be safe enough."

"Looks like Isaac doesn't plan on going anywhere any time soon," the sheriff comments.

"Isaac's been good with him."

"Is it the best idea to have him share a bed with someone after what he's been through?

He trusted Peter too readily; that's a mistake he'll have to live with. Nevertheless he trusts Isaac completely. Isaac's not Peter. Isaac's the only reason they've been able to make it as far with Stiles as they have.

"That's the only thing that keeps him from waking up sobbing from nightmares," Derek replies unforgivingly. "This isn't a text book case. We're rolling with the punches. He has nightmares; he's scared to be alone. He's still a little scared of me, so it falls to Isaac. He's been great with Stiles. If anyone's got any inkling of what Stiles has been through, it's Isaac. There's no one I trust more with him."

The sheriff wants to keep arguing, but he doesn't, which is a fairly wise decision on his part. Derek's not ignoring the fact that the man is Stiles' father, but, right now, Stiles is counting on _Derek_ to take care of him. Derek's going to do whatever it takes and whatever Stiles wants, perceptions and parental, outsider opinions be damned. "Just—take care of him," the sheriff says finally.

"We will."

"Keep me updated. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

"Of course."

* * *

"You won't leave without telling me?" Stiles asks quietly, just on the edge of sleep as he lies next to Isaac.

He wouldn't have minded the smaller bed again. It left him no choice but to be as close as he could to Isaac. He's not sure how much liberty he can take with that now. The small space separating them feels wider than it should. He knows he'd wake if Isaac left the bed, but he worries anyway.

"I won't," Isaac promises. "I'm right here, okay?"

He finds Stiles' hand in the dark and scoots just a bit closer. Stiles can't stop the smile that spreads across his face at the unhesitant reassurance.

 _Why are you so good to me, Isaac?_ he wonders for what seems the billionth time.

With Isaac's promise to stay easing the greatest trouble on his mind, Stiles drifts off to sleep still washed pleasantly in the residual giddiness of the day—making such progress understanding his Alpha, being shown family, having Isaac and Derek assure him he has a place in the Hale Pack family, getting a few memories like Derek and Isaac were hoping, controlling the shift without pain—and decides if every day is like this then he's going to be the happiest beta in the world.

* * *

Just a quick update before I got off to Disney which is officially 7 days away! If you have any questions contact me through my kik, which is on my profile and don worry if you´re a reader of Stiles is Derek´s Only because I´ll be updating today or tomorrow! Love you all so much and thank you for the support!

 _ **Stay a sourwolf! ~AlphaHook**_


	11. Chapter 10

Isaac wakes to the feeling of Stiles' hand finding his again after they parted in sleep. He opens his eyes and Stiles smiles guiltily.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay," Isaac replies. "You sleep all right?"

"Yes."

"You want to get up? We can go make breakfast. Your dad's got bacon and eggs and everything in the fridge."

 _Either you used to exaggerate his heart issues or the sheriff shot it all to hell once you went missing._

"You can go back sleep if you want to," Stiles offers. "I can make it."

"Nah, I'm not tired anymore; I'll help."

They head out to the kitchen. Derek's still asleep, but probably not for long once they get going.

"Will Scott and Jackson come today?" Stiles asks as he starts up the frying pan.

Isaac's got another pan full of eggs on the burner next to him.

"I dunno," Isaac answers. "D'you want them to?"

Stiles nods. "I think I could do better this time."

"Better this time?"

"When they came for lunch before, I wasn't very good at being pack yet. I think I could do better this time."

"Stiles, you're doing fine. Stop worrying so much about fitting in. None of us did when we first joined in either."

 _This whole pack being a family thing is a pretty damn new development. The only thing that could've gotten us all working together was a huge threat like the alphas, and the only thing that cemented it was the search for you in the midst of it. You're not that behind on the dynamics._

"You didn't?"

"No," Isaac assures him. "I was kind of an asshole, and Jackson was _definitely_ an asshole, and Scott was kind of pissed he had to be here in the first place. You're already way better than we were at first. You'll adjust soon enough, especially now that your memories are coming back."

Stiles doesn't reply, just takes in the words as he plops bacon down in the pan.

"If you think you're good to handle them dropping by, I'll let Scott and Jackson know," Isaac offers. "They'd be glad to see you're doing better."

"I could make lunch," Stiles adds. "If Derek wants."

"You know you don't always have to wait for Derek's blessing on everything."

"He's the alpha," Stiles replies simply with a confused look.

"I know but, generally, unless Derek says _not_ to do something, everything's fair game."

Stiles looks a little apprehensive at the idea. They're fringing on the amount of freedom he can fathom, so Isaac backtracks to be on the safe side.

"But if it makes you more comfortable to ask, that's fine," Isaac says. "Derek doesn't mind you asking anything."

Stiles nods again, taking in the words and focusing back to the task at hand. He's completely fine for the next two minutes. He's even humming softly to himself, which has Isaac grinning. Then his hand goes slack and the fork he's been turning bacon with clatters into the pan.

"Stiles?" Isaac asks.

His eyes are glued, unseeing, to the cabinet in front of him. It's the same look he got during the flashback yesterday.

 _Oh, fuck, please be a good memory._

* * *

"Derek! DEREK, NO! Derek, please! Derek!"

Derek bolts awake at the sound of Stiles' wails, takes the stairs in one long bound, and sprints into the kitchen, heart pounding at the terror of the endless horrific scenarios that run through his mind. When he takes in the room, there's no visible threat, just Isaac holding Stiles by the shoulders trying to calm him down.

"Look," Isaac says. "Look, Stiles. He's right here. See? He's fine."

He's completely unprepared when Isaac reaches back with one hand to pull Derek forward and transfer Stiles to his hands. Stiles holds on like his life depends on it and sobs into Derek's chest. Derek hugs back automatically, looking over Stiles' head for some clue from Isaac.

"Flashback or memory or whatever? I think? He was fine a couple seconds ago, and then he zoned out and snapped back screaming for you."

"Stiles, what was it?" Derek asks. "What did you see?"

"You were dead, Derek," Stiles sobs. "You were poisoned. There was monkshood in the bullet and you were dead on the floor and I couldn't get you to wake up and—"

"Shhh, it's okay. I'm okay. I'm here," Derek soothes.

 _I am a fucking horrible person for finding so much reassurance in the fact that he's this distraught at the idea of me dead._

"It's just a memory, Stiles. I'm okay now. I wasn't dead. You saved me—you and Scott."

"We did?"

"Yeah, you did."

As Stiles calms, Derek sees the moment he realizes that he's holding tightly to Derek and isn't sure that's allowed. He loosens his grip just slightly.

"Derek, I'm sorry; I shouldn't—"

"It's okay," Derek promises before Stiles can panic and let go completely.

 _I honestly don't even know the last time I hugged someone. Laura I think? I'm probably overdue._

"You were scared. It's okay."

He tightens his embrace just slightly in what he hopes comes across as reassurance and not possessiveness. Judging by the way Stiles' grip tightens again, he got the right message out of it and doesn't plan to let go just yet. His forehead rests against Derek's chest for a moment, the way he's only seem Stiles relax into Isaac. Derek can't help but mentally celebrate in the victory against Stiles' conditioning that this marks, but it's not the moment for him to be smiling. Stiles is still freaking out.

"I'm sorry, Derek, I didn't mean to wake you," Stiles mumbles.

"It's not your fault. I don't mind."

"It seemed real, and I could _feel_ it. I could feel _exactly_ how I was when it was happening—scared and worried and panicked and—and it didn't go away when I snapped back and I couldn't calm down and I—"

"It's a lot to take in," Derek says. "It's okay."

 _That explains the aggression last night. You get blasted with the emotions as you're blasted with the memory?_

"It was just a memory, a bad moment of a memory, but it all turned out okay." He pauses before asking, "Can you remember how it ended?"

"No."

Derek wonders if Stiles really can't or if he just doesn't want to find that memory anymore. He's not going to push it.

"You want me to show you?"

"Yes. Please."

The night at Deaton's seems like another lifetime ago. He thinks back on the memory, wishing now he could filter out the death threats and rough handling. He feels like it should come with a disclaimer, but he doesn't quite know what to say that's a good enough excuse. There's not one really.

 _I just kind of stay mad at everything. It's how I work. And you could get under my skin like nobody else. It's not—you're not going to understand, but things used to be different with us. How do I make you see that?_

"Stiles, I—uh—this is before you were pack," Derek reminds him, "and I was kind of poisoned and stressed and dying," _cheap excuse, Hale. Suuuuch a cheap excuse._ "So if I seem angry, it wasn't your fault back then either, okay?"

"Yes."

 _Please don't come out the other side of this scared of me again._

* * *

By the time Scott and Jackson arrive for lunch, Stiles has seen Derek survive the wolfsbane bullet; he's watched Derek protect him from the kanima and watched himself support Derek when the toxin took hold; and he's seen the two of them fight together against the alphas. It's a lot to absorb, especially on top of the other memories that flare in his mind without warning—everything from that terrifying vision of his new Alpha dead on the floor to the mundane location of Easy Mac in the McCall pantry—but Stiles will happily endure the bad memories for the sake of having the good ones. They take up the room in his head that used to be filled with Alpha Pack mantras and confusion and fear. He likes having good memories to mull over while he goes through the day; it's so much better than the cloud of anxiety that usually hangs over him.

"Are you humming Bon Jovi?" Scott asks as he walks in the kitchen.

"Maybe?" Stiles replies, "Yes," he confirms after focusing a moment and realizing that the melody and full lyrics of Living on a Prayer have now filled back into his mind. "I don't know how I know it."

"I think the more unsettling thing here is the fact that you're a Bon Jovi fan," Jackson replies with a pained expression.

"Hey, Bon Jovi rocks," Scott argues.

"On occasion," Jackson concedes, "still shouldn't be the first thing the guy gets back out of all the musical possibilities. We'll have to fix that."

"Okay," Stiles agrees; he doesn't have an opinion on music really. If Jackson does, he'll listen.

"Wow, yeah, that's going to take some getting used to."

"What?"

"Which is _fine_ ," Isaac interjects. "Don't be an ass, Jackson."

"Fuck off," Jackson replies.

They're not genuinely mad, just—teasing?—Stiles isn't sure. He can't read anyone's expression well enough to know how he should be reacting, so he returns to the grilled cheese sandwich he's making.

"Did you remember these are my favorite, or am I just lucky?" Scott asks, grabbing one from the pile Stiles has been adding to.

"Isaac knew," Stiles replies. "I don't remember much yet," he adds apologetically. "If you tell me your favorites I can—"

"Dude, it's totally fine," Scott replies. "No worries. I was just curious. Thanks for making it."

"I can make your favorite later, Jackson," Stiles offers. "Isaac wasn't sure what it was."

"Yeah, sure," Jackson replies. "If Derek's buying, then I guess my favorite is a big, juicy steak with some caviar and—"

"Don't tease him," Scott interrupts. "He doesn't get it."

"Whatever, McCall."

It's an odd combination, but they're both high quality food choices. Why wouldn't it be Jackson's favorite? But Scott says he's teasing, so Stiles looks between the two of them, trying to get the tease—joke?—he's missing. When he can't read it from their expressions—Scott's annoyed and Jackson's determinedly stoic—he glances at Isaac. Isaac smiles reassuringly before changing the subject to disperse the awkwardness a bit.

"So what's the deal with the basket?" Isaac wonders with a nod to the large wicker basket full of baking supplies Jackson deposited on the kitchen counter when he walked in.

"Oh, Lydia sent that for you Stiles," Jackson explains.

"Me?"

"Yeah, I told her you were doing the whole cooking thing, and she wanted to do something."

"Oh," Stiles replies, looking to Isaac again for cues of further reaction. "Thank you."

 _Why? That's a lot of trouble directed at me. First a book, now a gift, but why? I don't understand this part. Is this a family thing? It must be a family thing—giving just because you want someone happy, that's a family thing—but she's not family. She's not pack. So why?_

Scott's the first to reply to the confused look lingering on Stiles' face.

"You like _obsessed_ over her for a while," he says, "and then you two got really close the couple months before you were taken. She took it pretty hard. Guess she still wants to help even though she can't see you."

"She could now," Stiles replies. "I can control the shift," he expounds, trying not to smile _too_ proudly, "I don't need pain anymore. I can just focus and make it stop."

"It's pretty impressive," Isaac adds, and Stiles can't hold back the proud smile anymore.

"So no more forks in your leg? That's a plus," Jackson comments.

"That's awesome, seriously," Scott adds.

"I'll—uh—mention it to Lydia," Jackson tells him, though he's seems a little apprehensive of the idea, probably because of what happened last time.

 _I have control now. I have memories. She'll be safe, and it'll be a good excuse to ask Derek for Lydia memories. Maybe I'll figure out how she works with the pack. Or I could ask Isaac._

"Come on," Jackson continues. "I'm starving. Let's move this to the table."

* * *

"Cindy says I have to be home for supper or I'm grounded," Isaac informs the room at large with a sigh. "Anybody wanna give me a ride?"

He dropped her car back late yesterday, leaving the keys on the tire and texting her to avoid direct contact and immediate grounding. It was really only a matter of time before she called him in. He probably has the recent drama with Julian—his pothead younger foster brother—to thank for the delay in getting his own audience with the parental units.

"I'll take you," Derek offers. "The apartment's not classified as a crime scene anymore. I need to swing by and grab a couple things."

As soon as the suggestion is out of his mouth he looks to Stiles, whose eyes have widened only slightly in trepidation; Isaac's not entirely sure if it's the mention of the apartment or the mention of both him and Derek leaving at the same time.

"Will you be okay with Scott and Jackson for half an hour?" Derek asks, assuming it's the latter. "I'll be back quick as I can."

"They're pack; I'm fine, Derek."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

 _He'd tell you that anyway though. What if he's not okay with it?_

"Maybe one of us should stay here," Isaac can't help suggesting. "I can put it off for half an hour 'til you get back or—"

"You need to go home; Derek needs to get his things," Stiles counters. "I'm okay," he insists firmly.

Now it's the battle between protecting Stiles and long as possible and remembering they can't coddle him forever.

"We'll be fine," Scott agrees; he glances toward the basket of supplies Lydia sent. "We'll make cookies and shit. It'll be awesome."

"Peanut butter ones," Stiles interjects much more exuberantly than warranted. Isaac doesn't understand why he seems so excited until he continues, "I _did_ remember that one, Scott. Peanut butter cookies are your favorite."

"Hell yeah," Scott confirms with a grin. "See? We're bonding again already. We'll be fine."

"Yes, Derek," Stiles agrees, still smiling from the newest recovered fact.

"Call if you need me," Derek instructs the three of them. "Okay?"

"Yes, Derek," Stiles replies as Scott says "Sure" and Jackson quips "Oh, my God when did you turn into such a _mom_?"

"Fuck off, Jackson," Derek mutters moodily. "Come on, Isaac. Let's go."

* * *

Stiles feels the tension building in his chest the moment the door closes behind Derek and Isaac, but he pushes it pack down.

 _Scott and Jackson are pack. I'm fine. Derek and Isaac shouldn't have to worry about me. I'm fine. They'll be back soon. I'm fine._

 _"_ So are you seriously going to make peanut butter cookies?" Scott asks. "Because you don't have to but you'll be my hero if you do."

"Yes," Stiles replies. "I like making things."

 _I need something to stay busy plus it makes you happy. It's a good plan._

"I'm shit in the kitchen," Jackson informs them. "I'm gonna see what's on TV. Don't set the house on fire, McCall. Let Stiles handle the cooking."

Jackson leaves the table headed for the den as Stiles and Scott move back to the kitchen.

"I know he seems like an ass, but he'll grow on you eventually," Scott says.

"I can hear you, you idiot," Jackson calls from the other room. "I'm a fucking werewolf."

"Yeah, well, you're a fucking ass of a werewolf; watch TV and mind your own business!" Scott yells back.

They're insulting each other, but no one's really upset. They're joking—teasing?—again and Stiles doesn't entirely get it.

"Sorry," Scott mumbles as he unpacks the basket of supplies.

Stiles shrugs away the apology, not quite sure what it's for.

"You remember the recipe or you want me to get it?" Scott asks. "It's not hard, but I never memorized it like you."

"I don't remember."

"It's cool. I should show you the recipe books anyway if you like to cook. It was kind of your thing even before. After your mom died, you and your dad started going to Caroline's all the time, but, once a week, you insisted on cooking like a legit meal—usually on Wednesdays I think?—and you pick something she had flagged in the books usually."

Stiles files the information away; it'll be good to know if his father moves back here as Derek mentioned. Scott flips through the pages until he comes to a recipe flagged with a worn yellow post-it. He hands the open book to Stiles.

"That's the one," he says. "Nothing fancy or anything, but some damn good cookies."

Stiles runs his finger over the discolored smudges on the page.

"We did that," he says, looking up at Scoot for confirmation as the information pops unbidden to his mind. "We had a food fight?"

"Yeah, we did. You remember it?"

Stiles closes his eyes. It's not a whole memory yet, just facts and flashes.

"The whole kitchen was covered in batter and flour and—" he turns to look at the far wall— "I knocked a picture frame off the wall."

"Yep."

 _He's eight years old, catapulting a spoonful of batter at Scott's face. Scott ducks, and it hits a frame on the wall behind him instead. The frame falls to the floor with a loud thud, but luckily doesn't break._

 _Not so luckily, Mom still heard, "What on earth are you two doing in there? I've only been gone two minutes!"_

 _She rounds the corner just in time for Scott's reciprocation throw of batter to miss Stiles by a mile and smack her in the face with a plop._

" _Mrs. Joanna, I didn't mean to!" Scott says. "Stiles started it. He—"_

" _Did not!" Stiles argues, though he definitely did indeed launch the first handful of flour in this battle._

" _Spoon," she demands, and Scott relinquishes it, head down in guilt._

 _She dips the spoon in the batter still left in the bowl. Scott looks on confusedly until he realizes at the last minute he's under attack. The retaliatory throw lands smack dab in the middle of Scott's chest, next to two others from Stiles. Stiles recovers more quickly than Scott, grabbing a handful of flour and throwing it as his mom, giggling uncontrollably as the mayhem continues._

"Stiles?" Scott's asking. "You with me, dude?"

"Yeah. Just—I remembered it," Stiles says with a grin, the lightheartedness of the memory still lingering, "She wasn't even mad."

"Well, she did make us clean it all up, which took about a million years," Scott reminds him, "and threaten no more cookies _ever_ againif there was a repeat of it."

"She was nice," Stiles decides.

"Yeah, she was."

Quiet falls between them as Stiles reads through the recipe and begins to assemble the ingredients.

"Derek says your Dad might move back here soon."

"Yes, I think so. Derek says maybe tomorrow."

"He's nice too, Stiles," Scott says. "He loves you. You know that?"

"I know," Stiles replies.

 _In theory._

It's been really tough on him to let Derek take care of you, so, if he moves back, just—just remember he wants what's best for you, too."

"But Derek's still my Alpha."

* * *

"Yeah, I know, but your dad's still your dad, ya know?"

 _Not really._

"Give him a chance; that's all I'm saying."

"Okay," Stiles agrees.

 _He's family; family is important. That much I understand._

 _But Derek's still my Alpha; I understand that better._

It's the first chance they've had away from Stiles since everything went down after Peter. Derek expected Isaac so start shouting accusations or at least asking questions about Kate the minute the car door shut, but Isaac's been quiet the whole ride so far, staring out the window with something clearly on his mind.

"What's up?" Derek asks, more than a little worried of the answer.

 _You so freaked about that you don't want to talk to me at all? Yelling's better than quiet._

"Nothing."

"Seriously, Isaac? Don't bullshit me. I can tell something's up. Just talk."

 _Let's have it. whatever you have to say, get it over with._

"What happens when he starts remembering me?" Isaac asks.

 _Wow, okay, not where I thought this conversation was headed._

 _"_ What d'you mean?" Derek asks, trying to reroute his brain to field this conversation when he'd been gearing up for a talk about Kate.

"Come on, Derek. What happens when he gets a flash of me throwing him into a wall at Scott's? Or roughing up teammates to get rave tickets? Or other shit like that? It's going to happen eventually."

 _Good fucking question._

"He's seen what I was like before," Derek replies. "It didn't mess everything up."

"Yeah, but he's still a little scared of you."

"I'm his Alpha. You said it yourself, he's going to be at least a little wary of me until he gets enough memories back to be a smartass again," Derek points out resignedly.

"Exactly, but he's not scared of me. He fucking _trusts_ me, Derek. One glimpse of me wailing on him at Scott's, and that's done."

"You'll just have to explain it."

"How?"

"I dunno—but—give him something. That's what I did, right? Remind him it was before—before he was pack. Tell him there'll be good memories too. I've got a couple decent ones of you two I can give him."

Isaac doesn't reply. It's clear from the dejected look on his face he doesn't think it'll be enough.

"As he gets more of you he'll be getting some of Scott too; he'll get comfortable with him soon enough, and you won't have to take care of him as much on your own anyway," Derek says, trying to point out a silver lining.

"I mean, I don't really mind looking out for him," Isaac replies.

 _By 'don't really mind' you mean 'have actually been enjoying', don't you?_

"Huh," Derek replies. "I knew you didn't hate it or anything, but I didn't expect you to cry a river when he didn't need you as much. I thought I was leaning on you too hard with this."

"I am not _crying a river_!" Isaac retorts, "and this isn't about me. It's about him losing one of the only two people he trusts at the moment.

 _Sure, it's about him. He's occupied our every waking thought for the past nine days. For us, everything's about him right now._

"Talk to him later; try to explain. I'll give him a few good memories tomorrow. We'll figure it out. Don't worry."

 _I don't know what else to say to you. You're not the same newly turned, power-flaunting beta you were, but he's not the same snarky pain in our ass he was back then either. We'll try and make him understand the best we can, same plan as usual, there's not a whole lot else we can do._

* * *

The minute Cindy and Rob go to bed, Isaac's sneaking out his window and headed down the block to where Scott's waiting to give him a ride to the Stilinskis'. No way in hell was he staying here all night and risk fucking up Stiles good mood with nightmares—or worse, having memories of Isaac without Isaac there to explain himself. He thought Scott might have something to say about how close Stiles and Isaac have gotten, but he doesn't mention it the whole ride over, not until he's dropping Isaac off and the door's about to shut.

"Hey, thanks for taking care of him and everything," Scott says.

"I don't mind."

"Don't—just—be—be careful with him though; don't confuse him."

"What?"

"I just mean, he's really attached to you, dude. Like _really_ attached. Don't leave him hanging or whatever."

"I'm not."

"I know; I just—"

"He's your best friend, dude. You're worried; I get it."

"Yeah, okay. So—um—let me know if I can help with anything or whatever."

"Sure. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'll swing by after work."

Isaac heads into the house, trying not to be too pleased at the way Stiles' face lights up once Isaac walks through the door.

"You're back," Stiles says, stating the obvious.

"Yep."

 _I'm grounded as hell and they'll probably threaten to get me drug tested again if I keep this up, but who gives a fuck about any of that?_

"There are cookies if you want some," Stiles offers. "Food too. Jackson got—"

The sentence trails off as a memory takes him. Isaac finds himself praying he's not in it. Stiles snaps back without much fuss, he's smiling faintly so the memory must've been a decent one.

"Sorry," Stiles says.

"Don't be. It's fine."

"There's cookies," he starts again, "and Jackson got pizza for everyone; the leftovers are in the fridge."

"I ate already, but I'll grab a cookie for sure." _Even though I kind of hate peanut butter._ "Thanks."

He eats the cookie with the help of a huge glass of milk to wash it down. Stiles and Derek are watching the food channel, some chef competition show. Isaac settles in on the couch between them. He's trying to figure out how the hell to even bring up the memory stuff, but he doesn't want to ruin the chill vibe of the evening. It's a battle between rocking the boat now or later, and, in the end, he can't ruin a good night for Stiles in favor of self-preservation.

No matter what he may have said to Derek, this anxiety about Stiles getting those memories back is way more about Isaac than it is Stiles. Of course he doesn't want Stiles to be hurt, but that's a given. What he's focusing on is how accustomed he's gotten to being with Stiles just in the past couple weeks—being the hand Stiles reaches for, the person who makes him feel safe, the one who brightens Stiles demeanor just by walking in the room—and it's been pretty fucking awesome to be needed—wanted even—and it's even better now that Stiles is improving. Isaac really doesn't want this—whatever it is—to go away.

They head up to bed when the show ends. The others moved the furniture while Isaac was gone so the double bed takes up a lot of space in Stiles' room. He wishes selfishly that they'd just kept the twin bed, but he knows this is much more practical for the long term. More importantly, this is about Stiles' peace of mind, not Isaac's preferences.

"You're unhappy," Stiles says as he climbs into bed.

"I'm okay," Isaac replies, getting under the covers on the other side.

"Can I help? I want to help."

"It's nothing," Isaac assures him, but Stiles still looks worried. Worried about Isaac when it's supposed to be the other way around, so Isaac bites the bullet and starts the confession, "You're getting memories back," he comments, staring up at the ceiling.

"I thought you were happy about that?"

"Some of the memories of me you'll get back won't be very good ones—most of them actually."

"I don't understand."

 _Of course you don't. You've only ever seem the version of me that empathizes with an abuse victim. You're never seen the flip-side violent version._

"We weren't really friends before, Stiles. We weren't pack. We got to know each other a little better when we started fighting the alphas, but before that I wasn't—I wasn't exactly good to you."

"But you're good to me now," Stiles counters with a shrug, as though the rest doesn't matter.

 _It does fucking matter, Stiles. You're going to be scared of me._

"I hurt you though, Stiles, I—"

"I know. It's okay. Derek explained it."

"Derek explained it?" Isaac repeats confusedly.

"Yes," Stiles confirmed. "When Jackson and Scott left. "He told me how you were his beta, but I wasn't in his pack yet. He says any memories I get of you hurting me—or anyone—it's because Derek told you to," Stiles elaborates.

It's a perfect excuse. It takes all the blame from Isaac and attributes it to Derek. Isaac looks like a loyal beta who may not have _wanted_ to do what Derek said but would've followed orders anyway; Stiles can appreciate anyone being in that position.

 _But it wasn't all Derek. I'm not saying he helped matters, but it wasn't his fault._

"Stiles, you shouldn't think Derek—"

"He doesn't do that anymore," Stiles replies, incorrectly assuming where Isaac was going with his interruption. "I know. He doesn't make us hurt people anymore. It was just because the kanima was hurting people, and he thought it was necessary. He explained that too."

 _Well, damn. He was pretty proactive on that one. It's a great explanation for you, and I can't quite believe he took the fall for me—or maybe it's more about protecting you, probably more about protecting you—I should tell you the truth though. I should. I really should_

But the groundwork Derek's laid will get them through the foreseeable future with Stiles. By the time Stiles knows enough to understand the truths they've stretched to cover things up, he'll also know enough to see _why._ He might still be pissed, but pissed later is better than hurt now, right?

 _God, I hope so. He won't even really like me once he's back to himself anyway. Am I such a horrible person for keeping this while I've got it?_

It's not like he'd _ever_ delay Stiles getting better on the whole just to avoid rehashing some not-so-fond memories. This's just a white lie to preserving the peace of the present situation. So Isaac decides to leave well enough alone and hope it doesn't come back to bite him in the ass.

As Stiles' hand finds Isaac's as he turns out the light and he rolls over closer to Isaac, Isaac pushes his unease to the back of his mind in favor of enjoying the moment. He decides it doesn't make him an _entirely_ horrible person for hoping that enough of this Stiles makes it through the "getting better" process to still want him around in some capacity down the road. He wants the fear gone for sure, but, assuming Stiles keeps the memories of the past couple days, it might at least give Isaac a shot at staying close to him.

 _And I want that shot a lot more than I ever really figured I would. I really do._

* * *

Thank you for being patient with me, I've come back from the dead. Iv'e started highschool and I am the class president but my scheduel is a mess but Im back from soccer and everything. Do expect more now!

 _ **Stay a sourwolf! ~AlphaHook**_


End file.
